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By John Strange Winter. 

¥ 

i2mo. Paper, 50 cents ; cloth, $1.00. 

A MAGNIFICENT YOUNG MAN. 
EVERY INCH A SOLDIER. 

AUNT JOHNNIE. 

THE OTHER MAN'S WIFE. 
ONLY HUMAN. 


THE TRUTH-TELLERS. 

“ The reading world has a great respect for its 
fun -makers, those who skilfully weave the gaudier 
colors into the story of life’s web. John Strange 
Winter never fails us in this respect. Her choice 
of characters is out of the common, and her tact 
is exquisite as she brings them together, groups 
them, and disperses them with their various 
destinies ." — Boston Courier. 


INTO 


UNKNOWN WORLD 


BY 

JOHN STRANGE -WINTER 

AUTHOR OF "AUNT JOHNNIE,” “T^HE TRUTH-TELLERS,” 
"A MAGNIFICENT YOUNG MAN,” ETC. 






PHILADELPHIA 


J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 

1897 






Copyright, 1897, 

BY 

J. B. Lippincott Company. 


CONTENTS 

¥ 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I. — Home Influence 7 

II. — The awakening of a Soul 16 

III. — Longings 26 

IV. — How Things fall out 31 

Y. — Dangerous Ground 38 

VI. — A Merchant Prince 47 

VII. — The Brink of the Stream 62 

VIII. — Love the Tempter . . . ' 68 

IX. — Consent 65 

X. — Waiting 71 

XI. — The passing of the Kubicon 78 

XII.— Gone 85 

XIII. — Blame 92 

XIV. — Those whom God hath joined together . 98 

XV. — Into the Unknown World 105 

XVI. — Clive House 112 

XVII. — The Back— an Instrument of Torture . 119 

XVIII. — A Kevelation 127 

XIX. — A Mighty Effort 133 

XX. — Between Two Worlds 141 

XXI. — Externals versus Essentials 147 

XXII. —Open Confession is good for the Soul . 165 

XXIII.— The Last of her Boats 161 

XXIV.— Still — the Back 166 

XXV. — An Honourable Betreat 174 

XXVI. — Home, Sweet Home 181 

XXVII. — Young Folks’ Ways 186 

XXVIII. — Austin’s Ambition 192 

XXIX. — To meet the Bride 199 

. XXX. — A Social Failure .' 206 

XXXI. — The Head of the Business 213 

5 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER PAGE 

XXXII. — A Piece of News 219 

XXXIII. — Two Lives bound fast 226 

XXXIV. — Nearer and Nearer 232 

XXXV. — Face to Face 240 

XXXVI.— A Kift 247 

XXXVII. — The Rift widens 252 

XXXVIII. — A Suggestion 258 

XXXIX. — Enmity 264 

XL. — Crow’s Nest 269 

XLI. — A New Venture 277 

XLII. — She Stoops to Conquer 283 

XLIII. — Given Back 290 

XLIV. — Any Stick to beat a Dog with .... 296 

XLV. — A Bold Front 304 

XLVI. — The Member for Banwich 309 


6 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WORLD 


¥¥¥ 

CHAPTEE 1. 

HOME INFLUENCE. 

“ Some of our weaknesses are born in us ; others are the result of 
education : it is a question which of the two gives us the most 
trouble. ' ’ — Goethe. 

“ There is nothing in all the world so precious, so to 
be prized, so holy as love,” said a voice, in soft German 
accents. 

“ I suppose not, Fraulein,” came the answer through 
the fast-gathering twilight. 

“Ach! you are so cold, you English girls,” said the 
German girl, for she was but little more than a girl, 
though she had been for six months past entrusted 
with almost the sole care of Marjory Dundas, who was 
less than six years her junior. “ Meine liebe, do you 
never think of the day when you will find yourself in 
the embrace of your beloved ?” 

“ Oh, yes, I suppose I shall get married some day,” 
replied Marjory, a little hazily. 

“ Get married— some day — ^you suppose !” echoed the 
German girl, with an air of fine scorn. “ Ach ! how cold 
you all are ! Get married — some day. Ah, Marjory, 
there are nights when I lie awake, dreaming, thinking, 
hoping, wondering ” 


7 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WORLD 


“ But you are betrothed, — that makes a difference,” 
put in Marjory. 

“Betrothed — ^yes!” in a tone of rapture. “Ach, 
himmel ! and it is already six months since I have seen 
my Fritz. It may be six months more ” 

“Unless my mother decides that we are to go to 
Heidelberg instead of to some French place for the 
holidays,” said Marjory. 

“You will ask her?” interrupted the German girl, 
eagerly. “You will do your best, liebchen, that she 
says Heidelberg, will you not ?” 

“ Yes, I will ask her ; but she is not easy to persuade, 
and I am afraid she is set upon improving our French 
rather than our German,” said Marjory, doubtfully. 
“ But I would not set my heart on it if I were you, 
Fraulein ; if you do, I am afraid it will mean disap- 
pointment.” 

“ When I think of my Fritz, my own noble-hearted, 
perfect Fritz!” murmured Fraulein, half shutting her 
short-sighted blue eyes and clasping her little fat hands 
together with a gesture half of rapture and half of 
despair. 

“ I wouldn’t,” put in Marjory ; “ no, I wouldn’t ; and 
I certainly would take particular care that my mother 
never suspects even the existence of a Fritz. It will 
be goodbye to all chance of going to Heidelberg if she 
does.’' 

The German girl murmured “Liebchen — liebchen,” 
and then apparently fell straightway into a day-dream 
about her Fritz, who was no such hero after all, if 
Marjory Dundas had but known it, but only the second 
violin of a band of musicians who for the present made 
sweet music at Heidelberg and hoped for fame and 
fortune in the days to come. 

8 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WORLD 


Meantime, life in the big London house went on as 
usual. Ever since Marjory Dundas could remember 
anything, that life had been practically the same. She 
could never remember the time when her mother had 
not had more engagements than she could possibly get 
through ; she had never known her to take more than 
what might be described as a bird’s-eye view of her 
daughters’ lives, her interest in their appearance, their 
looks, their attainments, being atfairs not of to-day, 
but entirely for to-morrow. 

‘‘Fraulein, you must take care that Marjory does 
not stoop,” she would say. “ Sewing ? Oh, no ; what 
does my daughter need with sewing? Embroidering 
ruins the eyes. See that she holds herself well, — that 
is much more important.” 

NTot once in a month did the three young daughters 
of the house of Dundas see their father or mother 
before lunch-time, and not always then. If Mrs. Dun- 
das was lunching at home and there were not too many 
guests, the young ladies shared in the ordinary dining- 
room meal. On other occasions they were served sep- 
arately in the morning-room. 

“ Such a mistake to have girls too much en evidence 
before they are out,” said Mrs. Dundas one day to a 
friend who asked why her daughters were not present 
at some entertainment. “My girls are very pretty; 
it would never do to have them always to the front. 
Besides, I wish them to make a distinct mark in so- 
ciety when they are introduced.” 

“But don’t you think girls are apt to be shy ?” 

the other began. 

“Shy! No, I don’t think my girls will bo shy. 
They are always with their governess and occupied 
with their different lessons. They have no time to 
9 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WOKLD 


think of being shy,” said Mrs. Dnndas, with decision. 
“ Fraulein knows my wishes in that respect. A good, 
kind, estimable creature, with no nonsense of any 
kind about her, FrMein. Yes, that was why I chose 
a German in preference to a Frenchwoman. French- 
women are so intriguantes ^ — one never quite knows, 
don’t you think ? I would have preferred a French- 
woman so far as the language went, but with a sweet, 
simple, domestic, homely German one feels so much 
more safe.” 

So Mrs. Dundas’s three girls continued in the safe 
seclusion of the school-room and remained under the 
influence of the sweet, simple, domestic, and homely 
FrMein Schwarz; while the lady herself went her 
way secure in the feeling that she had done her best 
to fit her daughters to shine brilliantly one day in that 
society of which she was so bright an ornament and 
so popular a member. And Marjory, who was not yet 
seventeen, continued to be the confidante of all FrM- 
lein Schwarz’s rhapsodies concerning the absent and 
beloved Fritz, and, all insensibly though it was, to 
drink in deep, intoxicatiug draughts of that poison 
which most of us taste at one time of our lives and 
which we all know as the glamour of romance. 

It happened, as the season drew towards a close and 
Mrs. Dundas w^as obliged to bring her attention to 
bear upon the annual holiday of the three girls, that 
Marjory once or twice asked her mother whether she 
had decided on their destination. 

“ I should like you to go to some French place, 
Marjory,” she replied one morning, when Marjory had 
diplomatically approached the subject. “ Your accent 
is really very indifferent, though your French is fairly 
fluent. But I am doubtful.” 

10 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WORLD 


“Why are you doubtful, mother?” Marjory asked. 

“Well, for one thing, I cannot very well go with 
you. Your father and I are invited, and indeed have 
promised to pay a visit to Prince Erenstein at his place 
in the Thuringian Forest. If you had been a year 
older, Marjory, and had been introduced, you would 
have gone too. As it is, for at least another year you 
must be kept in the background. If I let Fraulein 
take you girls to a French place, with Marie, of 
course ” 

“ Oh, but, mother, she is so German, and so patriotic,” 
Marjory exclaimed, in a tone of alarm which she was 
far from feeling ; “ don’t you think she will certainly 
get us into trouble ? Somewhere in Germany she will 
be on her native heath, so to speak, and surely if we 
speak German perfectly it will count the same as if it 
were French.” 

“ I doubt it,” said Mrs. Dundas, seriously. “ Perfect 
French is perfect French all the world over. Still, as 
you say, Marjory, — and, really, you are very sensible 
and far-seeing for your age, — Fraulein is so very Ger- 
man, and the Germans are naturally not very popular 
in France, and it certainly would be awkward if any 
unlucky contretemps were to happen; so perhaps we 
had better say some place in Germany for certain. 
And there is another thing in favour of that idea: 
your father and I could travel part of the way with 
you and see you comfortably settled. That would be 
better for all. The only thing, then, to definitely settle 
is to choose a place for you.” 

“ Oh, Heidelberg, mother, Heidelberg I” cried Marjory, 
clasping her hands together; “ do say Heidelberg!” 

Mrs. Dundas looked rather coldly at her daughter. 
“ It is not necessary to get excited about it, Marjory,” 
11 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WORLD 


she said, freezingly. “Excitement is very bad form. 
Why do you wish to go to Heidelberg ?” 

“So lovely, so romantic, so ” Marjory began. 

“So cheap,” put in her mother, in cool, every-day 
tones. “Yes, good air, good water, good hotels and 
pensions. A suite of rooms in some quiet hotel would 
be the best. Helen could go on with her violin lessons, 
and you could take a few extra lessons in sketching. 
Really, I think Heidelberg would be as good as any 
place we could find. I will speak to your father 
about it.” 

Marjory sought out Fraulein Schwarz with a light 
heart. Speaking “ to your father” stood in that estab- 
lishment for a decision already arrived at, and Marjory 
was full of the news that the sojourn at Heidelberg 
was already a foregone conclusion. The German girl 
— I have said that she was but a few years older than 
Marjory — caught her pupil in her arms and kissed her 
with effusion. “ It is thy doing, thou angel,” she ex- 
claimed, with trembling lips and tear-dimmed eyes ; and 
Marjory, who was also shaking with excitement, was 
scarcely less affected. 

“ Hay, Fraulein,” she cried, putting her slim young 
hands on the dumpy shoulders of the little German 
woman and looking down upon her from her vastly 
superior height, “ if you upset yourself like this I shall 
be sorry that I tried to persuade my mother that 
Heidelberg was the place for us^” 

“ Upset ! How can I help being upset when I shall 
see my Fritz once more, my own noble-hearted Fritz, 
whom I have not seen for all these weary months, and 
to whom I have been betrothed ever since I was six- 
teen ? My Fritz, my Fritz !” 

“ Poor little Fraulein !” said Marjory Dundas, with 
12 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WOKLD 


a smile that was half of sympathy and half of envy. 
“ It is wonderful to feel for any one like that.” 

“Wonderful?” echoed the other, “ It is even more 
than wonderful ; it is heaven itself. Ach ! but you are 
cold, you English. Still, you will understand some 
day. You will wake up, — ^you will be born to love. 
Then you will know.” 

Marjory looked a little wistfully at her instructor. 
“You see, Fraulein,” she said, half shamefacedly, as 
if it were a distinct blot upon her character that she 
was so ignorant on this point, “ I have never had the 
chance of knowing about these things. Our last gov- 
erness was very stiff and very prim. I am sure if any 
one had proposed to her she would have fainted on 
the spot. I remember my mother saying to her once, 
‘I think first and foremost. Miss Jones, of what will 
fit my girls to shine when they are married,’ and Miss 
Jones positively shuddered, and said something about 
its being better to keep young girls free of such 
thoughts, and my mother laughed outright.” 

“ Madame is more sympathetic,” cried Theresa 
Schwarz, who at that moment was full of gratitude 
towards Mrs. Dundas for having unwittingly decided 
in favour of Heidelberg as a suitable place wherein a 
governess and three young girls might spend a holiday. 

“I don’t think,” said Marjory, slowly, “that my 
mother is in the very least little bit sympathetic to 
romance in any shape or form. It was only the other 
day that she was speaking to Aunt Margaret about 
a girl who had married a man for love and nothing 
else. Aunt Margaret was saying that after all there 
was a great deal of excuse for her, that the young man 
was handsome and very fascinating, — attractive enough 
to turn any girl’s head. ‘Pooh I’ cried my mother, 
13 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WORLD 


‘ what nonsense you talk, Margaret ! It all comes of 
the poor girl’s silly mother filling her head with such 
ridiculous nonsense, — marrying for love on two-pence 
halfpenny a year! They manage these things much 
better in France, where a girl is told to marry the man 
who is the most suitable for her to marry.’ 

“ ‘ But surely you would leave a poor girl her choice,’ 
cried Aunt Margaret. 

“ ‘ Not at all. How is a young girl, without expe- 
rience or anything but mere fancy to guide her, to 
know whether a particular man is best for her or not ? 
Nonsense ; a girl has nothing to do with romance and 
fancy and such like absurdities. Her business is to 
make a good marriage.’ 

“ ‘ And yet you married George,’ said Aunt Marga- 
ret, meaning, of course, my father. 

“ ‘ Yes, I married George,’ said my mother; shortly. 

“I wondered then and have often wondered since 
what Aunt Margaret could have meant,” Marjory con- 
tinued, in a puzzled tone. 

“ Madame knows what love is,” said Fraulein 
Schwarz, with conviction. 

“Perhaps; for my father is very handsome,” re- 
turned Marjory. “And yet — it is hard to think — I 
mean, to realize — that they were ever really in love 
with each other.” 


14 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WOKLD 


CHAPTEE 11. 

THE AWAKENING OF A SOUL. 

“ Seest thou shadows sailing by, 

As the dove, with startled eye, 

Sees the falcon’s shadow fly?” 

Longfellow. 

It was not the least remarkable characteristic of the 
life led by the Dundas family in the handsome house 
in Eaton Square that discussion was unknown among 
the members of the household. From the very begin- 
ning of her married life Mrs. Dundas had always reso- 
lutely and inflexibly set her face against such a habit 
growing either upon her or any member of her family. 
None of the three young daughters of the house had 
ever known a decision, once given, reversed for any 
reason whatsoever ; they knew not what it was to be 
nagged at, or in any way worried, on the score of 
things that were over and done with. A fault once 
reproved was never mentioned again ; a commendation 
was uttered once and once only. Mrs. Dundas herself 
was thoroughly consistent, and never, under any cir- 
cumstances, argued with her lord and master. “ I 
think, George,” she would say, “ that we may as well 
do such and such things.” To which the Honourable 
George was expected to give an unhesitating consent, 
and invariably did so. And when, now and again, she 
sought a definite opinion from him and asked his ad- 
vice, she never argued a point, but accepted his fiat as 
the only possible plan of action to be taken under the 
circumstances. 


16 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WORLD 


Therefore, when Mrs. Dundas set forth to her hus- 
band her plan for giving the three girls a thorough 
change and at the same time a suitable holiday, he, 
seeing no objection thereto, fell in with it, and the 
matter was settled. 

The actual arrangements were simple enough. Mrs. 
Dundas wrote to a house-agent at Heidelberg, who 
recommended a suite of rooms in an excellent pension, 
where they could be spared all trouble of housekeeping 
and yet where they could be as much by themselves as 
if they were in a house of their own. 

‘‘ It will cost a little more to have meals served in 
their own apartments,” said Mrs. Dundas to her spouse, 

than if they joined the general table. Of course, they 
cannot join the general table; they might get mixed 
up with all sorts of people.” 

“ Oh, of course not,” returned Mr. Dundas, with de- 
cision. Mr. Dundas was nothing if not thoroughly 
insular in his prejudices. 

So the suite of rooms was taken, and, in due course 
of time, the Dundas family were conveyed by means 
of a couple of omnibuses to the railway station and 
started off on their journey, which to some of them, at 
all events, was to lead into an unknown world. How 
utterly and entirely unknown a world it would prove 
they little suspected. All were entirely trustful of that 
dim, mysterious future which ever looms before each 
one of us, and about which the majority of us think so 
little that it scarcely troubles us at all. Of the six 
people who that morning left the home which would 
never be the same again to any one of them, not one 
cast so much as a single backward glance at it. All 
were gay and smiling, full of joyous anticipation of 
what lay immediately behind the veil, — Mr. Dundas 
16 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WORLD 


pleasantly thinking of good sport, his wife tossing her 
head, so to speak, over new social triumphs, Fraulein 
dreaming ecstatically of her Fritz, and the three girls 
brimful of the promise of life ! Alas ! alas! 

There is nothing very wonderful in a journey from 
London to Heidelberg. To Mr. and Mrs. Dundas, who 
had made it many times before, it was only a time to 
be got over as easily and as comfortably as might be. 
To the others, who were in the next carriage during 
the railway parts of the journey, it was unmixed fun 
and merry-making. And at last they arrived at the 
lovely town on the banks of the Necker, and in a very 
short time were as much at home as if they had lived 
there for years. 

Mr. and Mrs. Dundas stayed but for a few days, being 
due at their destination in the Thuringian Forest. 
Mrs. Dundas was pleased to be very much satisfied 
with the arrangements which she had made for the 
girls and Fraulein. 

“A very good place, Marjory,” she said, on the 
morning after their arrival; “so much more private 
than a hotel, and no more trouble. If I had let you 
have a fiat and had left you to provide your own 
meals, I feel convinced you would never have had 
enough to eat, but would have spent all your house- 
keeping money on cakes and ices. These rooms are 
really very nice, and the cooking as good as you will 
get anywhere in Germany. I shall go off to Prince 
Eren stein’s feeling quite happy about you.” 

“ I am sure you may be that, mother,” said Marjory. 
“We shall be perfectly comfortable, and Fraulein’s 
joy at finding herself in her native land again is too 
extreme for description.” 

Mrs. Dundas looked up sharply. “Marjory,” she 
17 


2 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WOKLB 


said, in a quick tone of suspicion, “ Fraulein is not a 
native of Heidelberg, surely ?” 

“Oh, no, mother; certainly not. But Germany is 
all home to her, and she has suffered horribly from 
home-sickness ” 

“ What absurd nonsense !” ejaculated Mrs. Dundas, 
'v\Lith a disgusted air. “ Home-sickness, indeed I H’m ! 
I wonder if she has ever lived in all her life as she has 
done since she has been with us. And eighty pounds 
a year into the bargain ! Home-sickness, indeed !” 

Marjory gave vent to a little sigh, but it was a meek 
and suppressed sigh which Mrs. Dundas did not hear. 
How hard her mother was, how unrecognizing of the 
rights of others, how unfeeling ! Did she never real- 
ize, the girl wondered, that Fraulein and the servants 
were human beings, with hearts and souls, and likes 
and dislikes, like higher placed and more fortunate 
people? Had she never grasped the fact that Frau- 
lein was young still, at least that she was not old or 
even middle-aged, that time was passing on, life slip- 
ping away, and the bloom and passion of youth fading 
and becoming less intense with every hour? No, no, 
to her mother poor FrMein was not a woman with a 
heart, a soul ; she was just a machine who was wound 
up with eighty pounds’ worth of oil every year, a 
machine whose sole raison d'etre was to help to make 
Mrs. Dundas’s daughters ready for the marriage- 
market! It was the first time in all her young life 
that Marjory Dundas had realized the actual quality 
of her mother’s nature ; for the first time in all her 
life she awoke to the truth that in time to come no 
question of her likes and dislikes would be taken into 
account when some one should wish to marry her; for 
the first time she realized that her future would not 
18 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WORLD 


be a question of her heart or even of her soul, but 
wholly and solely one of horses and carriages, of men- 
servants and maid-servants, of diamonds, of purple and 
fine linen, of ways and means, of rank and fashion, 
and the pleasure of Mrs. Dundas ! It was a loathly 
prospect, and Marjory Dundas seemed all at once, 
under the influence of these new-born ideas, to grow 
from a rather childish girl into a woman, — a woman 
young and inexperienced, it is true, yet full of all the 
innate pride, the reserve, the stateliness and dignity 
of the feminine creature whose bloom is still unbrushed 
by the coarse contact of the world. 

I do not mean to convey that Marjory Dundas from 
that moment was so changed that her whole life, 
thoughts, aims, and ambitions became totally altered. 
Oh, dear, no ! Those about her perceived no change in 
her at all. She ate and slept just as usual, and entered 
into all the bright pleasant life which was going on 
around her as gaily and light-heartedly as she had ever 
done. And when each morning, very, very early, while 
the brilliant summer day was yet in its infancy, the 
German girl, whose heart was brimful and running 
over with love for her Fritz, went out to spend a too- 
short blissful happy hour with him, Marjory not only 
sympathized but aided in the arrangement. 

Mrs. Dundas was delicately scornful at their enter- 
prise. “Such energy!” she said, when she first dis- 
covered that Fraulein and Marjory had been out 
sketching before breakfast. “ I suppose it is to be ex- 
pected that Fraulein will infect you with her homely 
German habits. It is a good thing that your sisters 
prefer to stay in bed, for I am sure they are neither of 
them strong enough for freaks of that kind.” 

“ It does me no harm, mother,” said Marjory. 

19 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WORLD 


“ Oh, no, my dear, none at all,” Mrs. Dundas rejoined, 
drily. “ I have no objection to your getting up in the 
middle of the night if it pleases you to do so, only I do 
hope it won’t last. You would find such a habit so in- 
convenient after you are introduced.” 

“ 1 don’t think it will become a habit,” said Marjory, 
feeling very guilty all at once and conscious that she 
was growing of a fine crimson hue. 

Nor did it prove so. When Mr. and Mrs. Dundas had 
gone on to Schloss Erenstein and there was no longer 
any cover needed for Fraulein’s comings and goings, 
Marjory stayed in bed of a morning like her sisters. 
If Fraulein chose to sally forth for the purpose of sit- 
ting in some arbour with her Fritz, that was no con- 
cern of Marjory’s, and she did not trouble herself about 
the matter. If the truth be told, it was a very great 
relief to the girl that she need no longer be present at 
the meetings between Fraulein Schwarz and her Fritz. 
She had during those few mornings, when the presence 
of Mrs. Dundas in Heidelberg had made such meetings 
almost impossible, passed a most miserable and uncom- 
fortable time. She was not old enough nor yet suffi- 
ciently well versed in the ways of the world to be able 
to judiciously efiace herself, and German lovers are not 
shy, so that she had usually sat on a camp-stool with 
her eyes glued to her painting-block, wishing heartily 
that she had been born devoid of hearing. This 
martyrdom on the altar of friendship and true sym- 
pathy for love did not, mercifully, last very long, and 
Mrs. Dundas would have been considerably astonished 
had she known how very, very soon Marjory’s new 
habit fell into disuse after her departure for Schloss 
Erenstein. 

Of a truth, Fraulein’s Fritz had been somewhat of a 
20 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WORLD 


revelation to Marjory. It would be hard to say 
precisely what she had expected to find him, but 
certainly she had looked for some one wholly different 
from what he proved to be. She would not have been 
very much surprised had he turned out to be a shaggy, 
unkempt person with a gold band round his cap ; but 
certain it is that she was genuinely surprised when she 
found that he was tall and comely, gentlemanlike both 
in manners and appearance, with a neatly cropped 
head of fair hair and a pair of good blue eyes such as 
were handsome enough to win the heart of any girl. 
And he was so pathetically in love with little Fraulein ! 
Marjory smiled to see how evidently he invested her 
with every virtue and every beauty. In the eyes of 
the young girl, trained by the association of her whole 
life to an appreciation of the outward signs of class, 
there was something wholly unattractive in the little 
dumpy German woman, with her hay-coloured hair and 
her too rosy cheeks. It was indeed wonderful that 
Herr Fritz, an artist, an ex-soldier, and a personable 
young man, could find so much to admire in her. 

Oddly enough, it was Herr Fritz whom Mrs. Dundas 
selected for the violin lessons which the second girl, 
Helen, was to take during their stay at Heidelberg, 
and her instructions concerning them almost let the 
cat out of the bag. 

“ I have arranged for Helen to have a violin lesson 
every morning, Fraulein,” she said, the evening before 
her departure for Schloss Erenstein. “ One of the 
violinists in the band has been very highly recom- 
mended to me, as he both plays and teaches well. His 
name is Schmidt. You will take care never to leave 
the room while the lesson is going on, Fraulein ! I 
have reason to ” 


21 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WORLD 


“ You need have no fear, madame,” broke in the little 
German woman indignantly. 

Mrs. Dundas, recognizing the anger in the governess’s 
voice, stared hard at her for a moment, as if to ask her 
how she dared show any passion to her employer? 
Then, with the habitual calm of a person who never 
allowed herself to show or indeed to feel anger, she put 
aside the momentary sensation of surprise and annoy- 
ance and went on speaking as quietly as usual. 

“ No, no ; of course I. know that you will do every- 
thing that is right, Fraulein. I did not for a moment 
wish to hint that you would neglect your charges. I 
am sure that you are much too conscientious for that. 
Only with young and impressionable girls one cannot 
be too careful. You understand what I mean.” 

The little governess pulled herself together by an 
immense effort and smiled her understanding of Mrs. 
Dundas’s meaning, and so the dangerous moment 
passed over without any revelations being made. Mrs. 
Dundas herself thought the matter over for fully ten 
minutes when she once more found herself alone. 

“ So strange,” she mused, “ that a young woman 
should feel offence about a trivial remark like that. 
Professional amour propre, I suppose. Dear me, it is 
difficult to understand.” 

So Helen Dundas began her violin lessons with her 
new master under the care of a duenna who was sup- 
posed to be blessed with a superabundance of profes- 
sional zeal; and her mother, quite happy in the security 
of feeling that she had so surrounded her with ramifica- 
tions of caution, bade adieu to her children and set off 
to enjoy the greater glories of the Schloss Erenstein. 
From this place her very first letter to Marjory served 
to arouse into fresh vitality all the thoughts of doubt 
22 


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and distrust which had first been awakened by her 
mother s careless remarks about Fraulein Schwarz. 

“Almost the first news I heard on arriving here,” 
she wrote, “ was as great a surprise to me as I am sure 
it will be to you. Mary Fanshawe is engaged to Lord 
Sievers. I could scarcely believe it at first, — it seemed 
so incredible to think of that little, plain, red-haired 
thing being Marchioness of Sievers. It only shows 
what can be done, — and, of course, Mary Fanshawe 
has been admirably brought up. I am writing to Mrs. 
Fanshawe by this post to congratulate her on the great 
event. I only hope that my girls will do as well.” 

For some time after reading this letter Marjory 
Dundas sat still thinking deeply. Mary Fanshawe 
was going to be married, she was going to be Mar- 
chioness of Sievers, she was going to have diamonds, 
and great houses, and troops of servants, and enormous 
wealth, and — and — and Lord Sievers! A sickening 
shudder ran through the girl’s slight frame as she 
reached this point in her meditations. Mary Fanshawe 
might be plain and red-haired, she might have been 
so admirably brought up that she would unhesitatingly 
choose worldly advantage before any other considera- 
tion ; but Mary Fanshawe was human, Mary Fanshawe 
was young. Lord Sievers was old and fat and bloated 
with gout or drink or both ; Lord Sievers was bald and 
rubicund, and he wheezed when he went upstairs. 
He wore a white waistcoat at all times, a white waist- 
coat that was offensively characteristic, and Marjory’s 
very soul turned sick within her at the mere thought 
of the marriage about which her mother was so full of 
admiration and almost of envy. 

Then another thought came to her mind, and she 
turned eagerly to Fraulein. “ Tell me, Fraulein,” she 
23 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WORLD 


said, “ and don’t think that I’m asking you for vanity 
or conceit or anything of that kind ; but — but do you 
think I am at all pretty?” 

“No, not pretty,” returned Fraulein, without a mo- 
ment’s hesitation, “ but beautiful, lovely ! It was only 
yesterday that I heard a great tall Englishman say to 
another as you passed, ‘ What a lovely girl !’ ” 

Marjory gave a great sigh and turned away with a 
gesture of dismay. “ I wish that I were ugly,” she 
said, mournfully. 

“ But why ? Surely, it is well to be beautiful,” the 
German girl cried, in accents of profound astonish- 
ment. 

“No — no — it is not good,” said Marjory, emphati- 
cally. “ I wish that I were ugly — ugly. I do, Fraulein, 
really.” 

She made a despairing gesture with her hands and 
walked a few steps towards the window. Then she 
raised her eyes to a large pier-glass near at hand and 
looked at herself long and earnestly. 

“ Young and beautiful,” her thoughts ran. “ I never 
knew that I was beautiful until to-day. Add up the 
list of my charms, — fine silky hair, deep gray eyes, 
black lashes that lie on a white skin, straight little 
nose with a tilt at the end of it, a dimple at one side 
of my mouth, and the end of it all, a Marquis of 
Sievers — or worse.” 


24 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WORLD 


CHAPTER HI. 

LONGINGS. 

- She that has light within her own clear heart 
May sit i’ the centre and enjoy bright day.” 

Milton. 

. . And Helen has her violin lesson every morn- 
ing,” wrote Marjory Dundas to her mother. “She 
says she has learned more from Herr Schmidt already 
than she learned from Signor Scarpi in two years.” 

It was quite true. Herr Fritz — as the girls always 
called him — was an enthusiast in his art and a born 
teacher. He could not help imparting to others what 
he knew himself, and if there were tender glances 
between him and the rosy-cheeked little Fraulein, and 
a sly meeting of the fingers now and again, the lesson 
certainly did not suffer thereby. Moreover, Helen was 
three years younger than Marjory and extremely 
childish for her age, or, if not exactly childish, she 
was at least so devoted to her violin that she took 
neither interest in nor gave heed to the signs of the 
times which presented themselves around her. 

So eager a pupil was she, and so enthusiastic a 
teacher was Herr Fritz, that the hour of the lesson 
frequently resolved itself into two or more, and often 
he would bring his own violin and practise, so that 
Helen might have the benefit of listening thereto. 

“ She is a genius,” he said more than once to the 
governess. “ She has greatness in her. Is she going 
to play with her gift, or is she going to give her life 
to it?” 


25 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WORLD 


“ Ach, I cannot say. I must introduce you to Mrs. 
Dundas when she returns,” Fraulein replied. “But I 
don’t think she will be allowed to devote her life to 
her gift, no matter how great it is. In their class of 
life they regard artists as — as — well, as very inferior 
persons, who have no more cause for living than to 
minister to the pleasure of people in good society. 
Mrs. Dundas wishes Helen to play well, because it will 
be a stylish thing to do ; it will give her a chic'' 

“ It is iniquitous,” said Herr Fritz, “ to think that 
there could be any hesitation in dealing with a gift of 
God so great.” 

“I do not think,” replied the little Fraulein, “that 
Mrs. Dundas is a lady who has any feeling about a 
gift being of God. She thinks a great deal more 
about the necessities of society. I feel certain that 
she will never allow Helen to study the violin profes- 
sionally ; I feel as certain as that I am standing here 
this moment. However, as I said, I will introduce 
you to her when she returns, and you will hear for 
yourself what her ideas are on the subject.” 

“ And meantime,” said Herr Fritz, “ even if it is to 
be hidden under the cloak of the amateur, it will give 
me the greatest pleasure to foster Fraulein Helen’s 
genius. Her mother should be very proud of her.” 

“My dear Fritz, heart of mine,” cried Fraulein, 
“ you don’t understand these people. If the Princess 
of Wales were to ask Helen to play to her, that would 
give her mother more satisfaction than if she won the 
approval of the whole world. Money is nothing to 
rich English people, and fame, as you regard it, is a 
something which for themselves they would rather not 
have.” 

Helen herself was troubled with no feeling one way 
26 


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or another as to the ultimate use of her gift. She 
worked duly and truly at her violin, so much so that 
FrMein at last was obliged to insist upon her putting 
the instrument away in its case and devoting more 
time to her legitimate holiday. 

“ You know, liebchen,” she said to her, “ if you work 
so hard you will be ill, and then your mother will be 
extremely angry with both of us. There is reason in 
everything and a time for all things. You have come 
to Heidelberg first of all to have a holiday for your 
health, for your relaxation, and to be playing so many 
hours a day is good neither for your mind nor your 
body.” 

Then, very reluctantly, Helen would allow herself to 
be drawn into some walk or excursion, or into going 
on the river with the safe old boatman whom Mr. 
Dundas had specially charged to take care of his 
daughters when they wished for that particular recre- 
ation. 

“ It would be nice,” said Fraulein to Marjory one 
day when they were sitting together in the garden of 
the pension, “if we could make a little picnic by 
water.” 

“ Any time you like, Fraulein,” replied Marjory, who 
was as ready to go in for boating as for walking or any 
other form of amusement. 

“ Fritz has a whole day off on Friday,” said Fraulein, 
half hesitatingly. 

“You mean him to go with us?” 

“ That would be rather nice, wouldn’t it ?” 

“ I think it would be rather nice — yes.” 

“ It would be heaven !” said little Fraulein, clasping 
her hands enthusiastically. 

So they set off with the old boatman to a pleasant 
27 


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village some miles away from Heidelberg, starting in 
the pleasant time of the morning, and after the frugal 
German fashion taking their luncheon with them. It 
was a delightful day, not wildly exciting to anybody 
excepting Fraulein, but the scenery was lovely, the 
weather exquisite, the place new and interesting, and 
the girls were contented and happy. 

So the first week went by. Marjory heard twice 
from her mother, and in the first of those letters she 
told her that they had promised to extend their visit, 
and also that they had arranged a visit to another 
friend in Austria, and that they intended to pass a few 
days in Yienna, as they were so near. 

“ I enclose you a cheque-book,” Mrs. Dundas 

wrote ; “ the cheques are signed, and you must see that 
you pay everything each week. Do not stint your- 
selves for excursions and pleasures of that kind, and 
be sure that you do not eat too many ices ; they are 
very bad for the comjfiexion and not half as wholesome 
as fruit. These foreign country houses are very amus- 
ing. I am in great hopes that we shall have similar 
invitations for next year, as I am sure you would enjoy 
this life extremely. Of course there is always the 
probability of your being engaged during your first 
season, which would effectually upset any such invi- 
tations being accepted. I hope that Fraulein takes 
great care over Helen’s violin lessons. She is tall for 
her age, and these absurd Germans of that class are 
very sentimental ; it would be dreadful to have any 
such ideas put into the child’s head.” 

Marjory laughed outright at her mother’s letter. It 
struck very wide of the mark. 

“Why are you laughing, Marjory?” said Fraulein,. 
across the break fast- table. 

28 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WORLD 


“ Oh, nothing ; only something very amusing in my 
mother s letter. What are we going to do to-day ?” 

“ Helen has her violin lesson this morning, then we 
are free to do as we like. This is not your day for 
sketching, is it ?” 

“ Oh, no,” said Marjory. 

She was not much interested in her sketching, and 
the drawing-master whom her mother had chosen was 
the most uninteresting person she had ever seen in her 
life, — a grumpy, elderly man, who was not the least 
interested in his pupil, because she gave no signs of 
possessing any talent above the average. 

“ No, no, Fraulein,’^ she said, “ my sketching is to- 
morrow. I wish,” she added, with a sigh, “ that it 
were always to-morrow. I do call it such waste of time 
to spend two whole hours with that tiresome old man, 
who thinks my fingers are all thumbs, and very stupid 
at that. I am not like Helen, who really loves her 
lessons.” 

“ But it pleases your mother,” said Fraulein, indul- 
gently. 

“ Oh, yes, yes, of course I have got to do it, — I know 
that, — but it is tiresome. I always feel when the time 
for the lesson comes that I want to be doing something 
else. “Fraulein,” she said, looking up eagerly and 
fixing the dumpy little German with her brilliant grey 
eyes, “do you know that I have an ambition?” 

Fraulein looked up. 

“ An ambition ; do you mean it ?” 

“ Yes, a great ambition. I would like, Fraulein, — 
you don’t know how much I would like, — to go on a 
tricycle !” 

“ My dear child !” exclaimed the governess, in horror. 
“ Pray never let your mother know that such an idea 
29 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WOELD 


entered your mind. She would be horrified ; I believe 
it would be her death.” 

“ I do not think so,” said Marjory, calmly. “ Eng- 
lishwomen are taking to the tricycle, — not many, it is 
true, but some of the princesses ride them. At all 
events I should like to try, FrMein, and mother said 
that we were not to pinch ourselves for amusements 
and excursions and things of that kind, and I don’t see 
why she should mind my going on a tricycle.” 

“ It is so dangerous,” said the little governess. 

“ Oh, not a bit ; not half as dangerous as skating or 
riding ; indeed, there is nothing particularly dangerous 
in it. I would like to try, — you don’t know how much. 
Oh, I say, Fraulein, what a good-looking young man !” 

The garden of the pension overlooked the high- 
road, and at that moment a young man on a very high 
bicycle came with the swift silence that is almost 
ghostly along the dusty way. He was a very ordinary 
type of a young travelling Briton, he sat his machine 
well, and was irreproachably garbed. His appearance, 
even in the brief space which passed before he shot out 
of sight, stamped itself upon the two girls as being quite 
out of the ordinary. 

“ Now, how lovely that looks !” said Marjory, jumping 
up and running to the wall of the terrace overlooking 
the road. “ See, he sits like a boat upon a wave. No 
effort, no noise, no ugly movements. What a pleasure 
it must be to spin through the air like that ! Why, I 
wonder, don’t they make bicycles that women can ride 
on?” 

“My dear!” cried Fraulein. 

“ Yes, I mean it,” cried Marjory, turning her radiant 
eyes upon her governess ; “ I mean it. Why should 
men have everything and women nothing in this world ? 

30 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WOKLD 


Oh, the exhilaration of going through the air like that, 
— of cleaving the air ! I do not believe, Fraulein, that 
a balloon can be named in the same day with it !” 


CHAPTEE lY. 

HOty THINGS FALL OUT. 

“ Life is a business, not good cheer.” — G eorge Herbert. 

The following day the youngest of the three girls, 
Winifred, woke with a headache. 

“ Oh, Helen,” she said to her sister, “ my head does 
ache so this morning!” 

“ Then you had better stay in bed,” suggested Helen. 
“ Shall I tell Fraulein ?” 

“ Yes, I wish you would.” 

Helen therefore went into the adjoining room, which 
was shared by Fraulein and Marjory, and told the 
governess of Winifred’s indisposition. 

“ Indeed, then,” cried Fraulein, who was extremely 
anxious at being left in sole charge of the girls, “ you 
had best remain in bed, and if you are not better by 
mid-day I will call in a doctor. How dost thou feel, 
liebchen ?” she enquired, relapsing into the tender pro- 
noun in the extremity of her anxiety. 

‘‘ Oh, my head aches and my throat feels dry and hot 
and my bones ache,” said Winifred, listlessly. “I 
don’t think it is anything much, Fraulein ; I have been 
like this before. If I may have a cup of tea and lie 
still here, I daresay I shall be all right presently. 
Don’t call in a nasty,. stuify old doctor, will you?” 

“Mein liebchen, if thou art ill,” cried Fraulein, piti- 
31 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WORLD 


fully, “it will be absolutely necessary to call in a 
doctor, but I will choose one who is nice. I have 
heard that the English doctor here is kind and charm- 
ing.” 

“ Oh, well, if he is English I don’t mind,” said Wini- 
fred, rolling her head fretfully on her pillows; “but 
don’t send for him just yet. I daresay I shall be 
better by and by.” 

But Winifred did not grow better. On the contrary, 
she became distinctly worse as the day wore on, and 
after an hour or two of anxious watching, Fraulein sent 
for the English doctor. He proved to be, as Fraulein 
had said, both kind and charming. He told the little 
patient that she was not very well, that she would have 
to stay in bed for a day or two, and that he would 
send her some medicine not too nasty. But when he 
drew the governess out of the room, he told her that 
he had great suspicions that the child was in for an 
attack of measles. 

“ Has she had the measles ?” he enquired. 

“ Ach, that I do not know. But Marjory — that is. 
Miss Dundas — would be sure to know. Come this 
way, doctor.” 

She led the way through her own bedroom into the 
large sitting-room, where Marjory was reading near 
the window. 

“Marjory, has Winifred ever had the measles?” she 
enquired. 

“No, never. Good-morning, doctor. Neither of my 
sisters have ever had the measles. You don’t mean 
that Winifred has got them ?” 

“I am very much afraid your sister is in for an 
attack of the measles,” said the doctor. “But you 
need not alarm yourself ; it is a simple illness, and at 
32 


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this time of year with ordinary care it is not danger- 
ous. The question is, Can she remain here?” 

‘‘I don’t think we could allow Winifred to be taken 
away to any hospital or to any place by herself, 
doctor,” said Marjory, suddenly assuming the au- 
thority of the situation. “ You see we are here with 
only Fraulein, while our parents are away staying at 
Schloss Ernstein, and I am quite sure if she is taken 
away, she will be frightened to death. If they insist 
upon her leaving this house, we had better go into a 
villa. At all events, it is impossible for Winifred to be 
entirely separated from us.” 

“ I don’t think,” said the doctor, “ that there will be 
the slightest necessity for a measure so stringent. I 
will speak to the lady of the house. It may be neces- 
sary to isolate her ; indeed, I should advise its being 
done. I should also advise you to have a nurse.” 

“ You don’t mean that she is ill enough to require a 
nurse ?” said Marjory. 

“No, my dear young lady, your sister is not very ill, 
but you spoke of another sister.” 

“ Yes, she is the one between us.” 

“ Well, she might have the measles, you might have 
them, FrMein might have them, and it is better the 
little patient should have a proper nurse who under- 
stands illness, even if she is not ill enough to require 
such attention.” 

“ Oh, of course, anything that is necessary she must 
have. I am quite sure that my mother would say 
so. Will you send us a nurse, then, and will she be 
young?” 

“Yes, I will send you a nurse, and she shall be 
young,” said the doctor, smiling ; “ she shall be young 
enough to be a companion to the little patient when 
o 33 


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she is getting better. And now, if you please, I will 
see the landlady.” 

The result of the doctor’s interview with the lady 
of the house was that the Dundas family were to be 
removed from the suite of apartments taken by their 
mother to a small villa or dependance of the pension, 
situated in the garden and only vacated a few days be- 
fore by an American family. 

“Nothing could have fallen out better,” said the 
doctor. “ I had no idea that the little villa at the end 
of the garden belonged to Frau Wagner. You will 
have the same cooking and attendance as you have 
now. It will cost a little more, but ” 

“That is nothing,” put in Marjory, emphatically. 
“ Indeed, we need not consider any question of money. 
Is it necessary to send for my father and mother?” 

“ Not the very least in the world,” said the doctor, 
laughing outright. “ At present it seems to me like a 
mild case of measles. It may even in the course of the 
next twenty-four hours prove to be practically noth- 
ing, but I think we shall find that your sister is going 
to have measles. We could telegraph for your father 
and mother if she happened to be worse, but with care 
there is not the slightest fear that she will ever be in 
the smallest danger. You will remain with her, Frau- 
lein. Give her the cooling drink I have asked Frau 
Wagner to have prepared, see that she has her medi- 
cine, and do not let either of the young ladies go into 
the room. I will send you a nurse as soon as possible.” 

By the time that the nurse sent by the doctor ar- 
rived the little villa was ready for the reception of the 
invalid, and the patient — rolled up in blankets until, 
with a half-fretful laugh, she exclaimed that she was 
like a veritable mummy — was transferred from her 
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bedroom to her new apartment. The room had been 
well warmed, and the little invalid suffered no incon- 
venience from the excitement of the move. She took 
a fancy to the nurse, who was young and very comely, 
and when, in answer to her insistent enquiry, the doc- 
tor told her what was amiss with her, she at once ex- 
pressed a wish that her sisters and Fraulein should not 
come near her. 

“People do catch measles, don’t they, doctor?” she 
said, looking up at him with an anxious expression on 
her little flushed face; “and because I have got the 
measles, there is no reason why Helen and the others 
should have them. Helen has never had the measles, 
I don’t think.” 

“No, your elder sister tells me she has never had 
them. I think, my dear child,” said the doctor, “ that 
you are very brave and very plucky and considerate to 
think so much of the others as you do, when you are 
not feeling very well. I am very proud of my little 
countrywoman, I assure you.” 

Three days later Marjory Dundas wrote again to her 
mother. 

“ Dearest Mother,” she said, “ I am glad to tell you 
that dear little Winifred is going on as well as the 
doctor could wish. He says I am to tell you that she 
is keeping her strength up splendidly, likes her nurse 
very, very much, and does not feel very ill. Unfor- 
tunately, Helen began to sicken this morning, and the 
doctor has ordered her to bed at once. She is not in 
the same room with Winifred, but has another opening 
out of it. FrMein and 1 are sharing a room on the 
opposite side of the little house, and the doors of both 
the sick-rooms are hung with sheets dipped in disin- 
fectants. Dr. Atkinson suggested to me this morn- 
35 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WORLD 


ing that it would be well to have another sick-nurse, 
not because either of the girls at present is seriously 
ill, but because the strain is too great for one nurse to 
attend to them day and night. You see, being an 
infectious case, it is impossible for FrMein to relieve 
Sister Mary. I told him that it was not necessary to 
write for your permission, as I knew perfectly well 
what you would wish me to do. It seems very heart- 
less, when poor Helen and Winifred are so ill, that 
Fraulein and I should be going about as usual, but Dr. 
Atkinson is very insistent that we are both as much as 
possible in the open air. We keep in the little garden 
attached to the villa, as, naturally, Frau Wagner would 
not like us to use the garden that is common to all the 
pensionnaires. We, of course, do not like either to go 
to the concerts or anywhere where there are many 
people, so we go on the river a great deal, and, in spite 
of our anxiety, enjoy it very much. Dr. Atkinson 
bade me tell you that you and father need feel no 
anxiety, as, so far, there is no danger. The new nurse 
comes in to-day, and I only hope that she will be as 
nice as Sister Mary, who is the kindest and most care- 
ful creature in the world. I will write every day, and 
will telegraph if there is the least anxiety about either 
of them.” 

In reply to this letter Mrs. Dundas wrote back to 
Marjory, begging her to spare no expense of any kind, 
and praising her very highly for her good sense and 
foresight. 

“ . . . You are a born manager,” she concluded, “and 
I feel quite proud of you. Certainly it is the wisest 
thing for you and Fraulein to be out as much as possi- 
ble and to amuse yourselves. So many people foolishly 
frighten themselves into infectious illnesses by their 
36 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WORLD 


very cowardice. I feel so glad that your father 
arranged wnth the boatman that you should have him 
always at your disposal ; it renders you so free of peo- 
ple who are scared of the poor children’s illness. It is, 
indeed, most unfortunate that this should have hap- 
pened whilst we are all away from home, but when I 
return, I shall mark my approval of the way in which 
the kind and sensible people about you have behaved to 
you. At the same time, if there is the slightest danger, 
or you feel the smallest anxiety, do not hesitate to send 
me a wire, and we will return instantly. We intend to 
stay here for another week, and unless things are going 
on well, shall not put any farther distance between us.” 

Marjory read this letter to Fraulein. 

“My mother is so sensible,” she said; “she never 
makes a fuss, as some people do. I really don’t see 
that it was necessary for her to come back. You 
seemed to think so, Fraulein, but what good would it 
have done ? I don’t believe mother would ever have 
attempted to nurse either of the girls, and, as they are 
not very ill, she may just as well be there as here.” 

“ It seems more natural ” began Fraulein, and 

then checked herself. After all, if Marjory had ex- 
pected no more of her mother than that she should 
be perfectly satisfied to leave her sick children among 
strangers, it was not for her to render the girl dis- 
satisfied with her lot. 

They were at that moment sitting in the small gar- 
den of the villa. It also had a portion of the terrace 
overlooking the road, and as Fraulein checked the 
words upon her lips she started up and looked over 
the wall, for her quick ears had caught the sound of a 
familiar footstep. Marjory followed, and there, sure 
enough, on the road below, was the figure of Herr 
37 


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Fritz, and beside him was the tall young man in 
knickerbockers whom Marjory had so much envied 
for the possession of his iron horse. 


CHAPTEE V. 

DANGEROUS GROUND. 

“ Find earth where grows no weed, and you may find a heart 
wherein no error grows.” — J. S. Knowles. 

Herr Fritz took oif his hat with a flourish to his 
betrothed and her pupil. 

“I was just on my way,” he said, “to enquire for 
the young ladies. I hope that the doctor’s report is 
good.” 

“ Oh, yes, Herr Fritz,” replied Marjory. “ Helen 
has undoubtedly got the measles also, but the doctor 
hopes it will not be a very serious attack, and my 
youngest sister is doing very well.” 

“And you are comfortable in your new house?” 

“Oh, yes, — are we not, Fraulein? — most comfort- 
able.” 

“ You are able to leave?” 

“ Oh, yes, for we are not allowed to see them.” 

“ I have not seen you at the band lately.” 

“No, we do not like to come,” said Marjory. “We 
think that it is not quite fair to go into a crowd while 
we have the chance of infection about us. We go for 
walks, and we sit in the garden, and we go on the river.” 

“ Is it possible that you could come out on the river 
to-day ?” said Herr Fritz, looking with longing eyes at 
his sweetheart. 


38 


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“I don’t see that there is any reason against it,” 
said Fraulein, in her turn looking at Marjory. 

‘‘ Do you allow — will you permit — this is my friend 
Herr Austin, — I should say Mr. Austin; he is your 
compatriot. Miss Dundas.” 

“ How do you do ?” said Marjory, giving the strange 
young man a grave little bow from her vantage-ground. 

“Very charmed to make your acquaintance,” said 
he, doffing his cap. “ Are you fond of the river ?” 

“ Oh, yes, I love it,” said Marjory. 

“And so do I,” he rejoined, eagerly. 

“Would you allow — do you permit — might Mr. 
Austin join us?” said Herr Fritz, eagerly. 

“ It would give me so much pleasure,” put in the 
young Englishman, with another look at Marjory. 

“ Oh, yes ; why not, — if you are not afraid of catoh- 
ing the measles ?” 

“ I am not afraid of catching anything from you,” 
he said, rather pointedly. 

The girl flushed under his unmistakable look of ad- 
miration, and turned to the governess. 

“ What do you think, Fraulein, shall we go on the 
river this afternoon ?” she asked. 

“ It is such a perfect day. Fritz, art thou free ?” 

“ Yes, I am free for this afternoon.” 

Eventually the two girls promised to meet the two 
young men at the landing-stage where the boat used 
by the Dundases was moored, and Fraulein’s betrothed 
undertook to let the old boatman know that they 
would have need of him. When, however, they 
reached the landing-stage they found the two young 
men awaiting them, but the old boatman was nowhere 
to be seen. 

“ But where is Hans ?” asked Marjory. 

39 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WOELD 


“ Hans is more than sorry, but he has sprained his 
wrist and it will be useless for a few days,” responded 
Herr Fritz. “ He was very, very sorry, but we told 
him that, as we were at your service, there was no 
need for him to trouble about you.” 

“ Poor old fellow,’’ said Marjory, “ I am very sorry 
for him.” 

But in her heart she was not at all sorry that they 
were relieved from the old man’s company. 

That trip on the placid bosom of the Necker was a 
new experience for Marjory Dundas. She had never 
in all her life before been thrown into the society of 
a strange young man. She had met young men occa- 
sionally, but had never been upon what one may call 
terms of perfect equality. She had always been pur- 
posely treated as a little girl in the schoolroom, she had 
always been to a certain extent kept back, and a boat- 
ing expedition with two young men and with no better 
chaperonage than a governess of two-and-twenty was 
a pleasure which she had never before enjoyed. And 
she did enjoy it. She enjoyed having some one to talk 
to who was neither excessively in love nor excessively 
artistic in temperament. She admired Herr Fritz, she 
thought him a noble lover for a dowdy little person 
like Fraulein, but he did not interest her, he did not 
interest her in any way whatsoever. She dreaded his 
amorous glances at Fraulein, but almost more did she 
dread his passionate dissertations on the beauty, the 
necessity, the religion of violin-playing. 

The Englishman took the oars and the violin-player 
the tiller-ropes. It was a natural enough division of 
labour, and the two girls sat at either side in the stern. 
Fraulein sat so as to give her undivided attention to 
Herr Fritz, and Marjory so disposed of her slight young 
.40 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WORLD 


person that she could talk to Mr. Austin without being 
compelled to see too much of the tender attention of 
the lovers towards each other. She found his conversa- 
tion extremely interesting. He talked to her of the 
tour that he had made, of the small adventures that he 
had had, a little of his own place, and a good deal of 
himself. He seemed to find his sisters and his sisters’ 
friends very much Dead Sea fruit. He was a young 
man with aspirations, and somehow they sat well upon 
him. When a young man has very blue eyes and very 
white teeth, a radiant smile, and his light-brown hair 
curls crisply, and his six feet of well-proportioned man- 
hood are encased in that most becoming of masculine 
garbs, — light grey knickerbockers and jacket, — it is a 
hard heart at seventeen that is not fluttered by such a 
presence. 

It was Marjory Dundas’s first experience of inter- 
course with a young man, and it was very sweet. 
They say that stolen milk is ever the sweetest. Mar- 
jory Dundas was hardly conscious that this particular 
pleasure was a stolen one, but she was sufficiently con- 
scious of the unusual nature of the entire proceeding to 
be distinctly exhilarated thereat. 

Then they landed at a little wayside paradise, — what 
in England we should dignify with no better name than 
that of a tea-garden, — and, mooring their boat, gave 
themselves up to the enjoyment of coffee and kuchen. 
And then one of them proposed that they should stroll 
about the garden for a little while before starting on 
the homeward journey. I have no doubt that it was 
quite by accident, but somehow Herr Fritz and Frau- 
lein completely disappeared. Lovers have a way of 
doing that sort of thing, and these two were very ardent 
lovers. As they walked down the shady garden, with 
41 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WOKLD 


its trees carefully trained so as to make a leafy screen 
for those who desired to refresh themselves at the little 
tables set out, Marjory missed her chaperon. 

“ Why, where is Fraulein ?” she said, looking round. 

Austin laughed. 

“ Oh, they have disappeared. Miss Douglas. Don’t 
grudge them a quarter of an hour to themselves, — they 
are very, very gone on one another.” 

“Yes, they are,” said Marjory, rather wonderingly; 
“ but it seems very queer for Fraulein to disappear in 
this way, doesn’t it ?” 

“ Very nice of her,” said he, boldly. 

“Oh, do you think so? Well, I am not so sure 
about it.” 

“ Still, it’s no use going to hunt them up until it’s 
time to go home, is it ? Let us go down and sit on that 
seat by the river.” 

And so they went together under the shade of the 
linden-trees to the rustic bench beside the stream. 

“ You like Germany ?” said he, and he spoke more in 
the tone of a man who wishes to say something than 
of one thirsting for information. 

“ Oh, yes, it has been charming. Of course, my sis- 
ters being ill has rather spoilt things for us, but we all 
like it immensely,” Marjory answered. 

“ Better than England ?” 

“ Oh, no ; I should not like to live in Germany. I 
should not like to live in any foreign country. I don’t 
think there is any place in the world like England, — 
unless it be Scotland, — and I don’t think I should like 
to live in Scotland all the year round. We, of course, 
live in London during the greater part of the year.” 

“ And when you are not in London ?” 

“ Oh, well, sometimes we are in the country, some- 
42 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WORLD 


times we are away, as now, and sometimes we go to 
the sea. We don’t often go twice to the same place.” 

“ You don’t think you will come to Heidelberg again 
next year?” 

“ Oh, no,” said Marjory, “ it is quite unlikely.” And 
an unwelcome thought came to her all at once that 
most likely by next year she would be engaged to some 
Lord Sievers, — somebody who would be rich, somebody 
who would give her horses and carriages, men-servants 
and maid-servants and diamonds, who would dress her 
in purple and fine linen, somebody who would possibly 
have a white waistcoat like Lord Sievers and sicken 
her very soul. “ Oh, no, we shall not be here next 
year,” she said, with a sigh that was almost a gasp. 
“ Everything will be altered by next year. You see I 
shall be out by then, — I am coming out next season, — 
and then 1 shall have to go everywhere that my mother 
goes.” 

“ And your mother is very strict ?” 

“Strict?” repeated Marjory. “No, I don’t think 
that my mother is very strict, but she would not 
dream of allowing me to come to Heidelberg with 
Fraulein after I was out.” 

“ I see.” 

In truth, the young man did not see at all, but he 
did not care to own as much. And Marjory talked 
innocently on. 

“Tell me,” she said, “where do you like best to 
live?” 

He looked up. 

“ I think,” he said, “ that I like my own home best, 
— my own place, you know. Somehow, though, it is a 
most unromantic place to see ; I always feel happier 
when I’m in harness when I’m there.” 

43 


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“ In harness ?” she said, enquiringly. 

“Yes, when I’m at work. I like a holiday, — I can 
take a holiday with any one, — but I don’t know 
whether a man isn’t happier when he is at work. I 
am in partnership with my father, you know. We 
have one of the biggest businesses in the east of Eng- 
land.” 

“Oh, yes, I see,” said Marjory, visibly impressed. 
“And you like being in business better than being 
idle ?” 

“ Oh, yes, ever so much. When you’ve got your 
hand on a big business you feel that you are some, 
body. Take, for instance, the career of a doctor. An 
ordinary doctor trots about from one house to another 
and charges a fee wherever he goes. But people are 
not always ill. He gets an epidemic now and again, 
and then he is very nearly run off his legs ; at other 
times he has nothing to do but to sit cooling his heels 
until somebody falls sick. A wretched life I should 
call it. Now, business always keeps going; business 
never fails, — ^if it’s a good business, that is. You can 
make a living as a doctor ; you can make a fortune in 
business.” 

“ Yes, I have heard my mother say so,” said Marjory. 

As she spoke a vision came before her of her mother’s 
face and attitude when a little time before she had 
heard of a girl of their acquaintance who was marry- 
ing a young man in business. “ Such a wise thing, my 
dear,” had been Mrs. Dundas’s exclamation. “ The 
Markham girls are quite without dots ; they have not 
one penny among them, the six of them. What a very 
wise thing for her to marry money like that ! They 
are not any of them beauties, and Adeline is positively 
plain, and to marry a young man whose father makes 
44 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WORLD 


millions of lace curtains every year is the most wise 
thing I ever heard of in my life. I shall send her a wed- 
ding present just to show her how sensible I think her.” 

“ My old dad,” continued Mr. Austin, “ has a grand 
head for business. If only he had the modern push, 
the go-ahead-with-the-times spirit, he would treble his 
fortune in four or five years. I can’t egg him on as I 
should like ; he always insists on keeping to the slow 
and steady pace. It’s all very well, is the slow and 
steady idea, but very often enterprise carries tho day 
where slowness and steadiness would lose it.” 

Now, all this was as Greek to the young girl, who 
had never known business as anything more than a 
name in her life. She looked at the young man, with 
his dancing eyes and his enthusiastic ideas, and thought 
that she had never seen any one so gallant and so 
manly in all her life before. How grand of him to 
take such an interest in business and to admire his 
father so much ! She felt as if her mother — although 
she possibly would not like to see him married to one 
of her daughters — would probably at once set about 
introducing him to likely young women in their own 
set, — young women who had no chance of attracting 
the attention of such men as Lord Sievers. 

“ What are you thinking of. Miss Douglas ? A 
penny for your thoughts,” said he, suddenly. 

She started and blushed vividly. How could she 
tell this young man, who was almost a stranger, that 
she had been thinking about his marriage ? 

“ I was thinking of something my mother said,” she 
answered, lamely enough. 

“ And you won’t tell me ?” 

“No, I cannot tell you; I don’t think it would 
interest you.” 


45 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WOELD 


“Whatever you choose to tell interests me to hear,” 
he declared. “Now, I was thinking just now that you 
have the sweetest and most charming name I have ever 
heard in my life, — Marjory Douglas.” 

“ But my name ” began Marjory, when at that 

moment Fraulein and Herr Fritz came running towards 
them. 

“ Oh, liehchen, liebchen, we have overstayed our 
time ! We must hurry back directly, because Fritz will 
be late for the concert.” • 

“ Oh, Fraulein, is it so late as that ?” cried Marjory, 
starting to her feet with a cry of dismay. 

“Yes, indeed, it is very late; how late I did not 
know. Indeed, the time does slip by so quickly when 
one is happy. Why didn’t you remind me, Marjory ?” 

“ I did not know the time,” said Marjory ; “ I have no 
watch with me.” 

“And perhaps,” put in Austin at that moment, 
“ perhaps Miss Marjory has not been so unhappy her- 
self that she was painfully conscious of the flight of 
time.” 

Marjory looked up with a start, partly at what his 
words implied and partly at the increase of familiarity 
which the use of her Christian name, even with the 
prefix, implied. 

He caught the look and understood it. 

“ You don’t mind my calling you Miss Marjory, do 
you ?” said he, persuasively ; “ it is such a sweet name. 
I never knew anyone called Marjory before.” 


46 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WORLD 


CHAPTER YL 

A MERCHANT PRINCE. 

* O end to which our curi’ents tend, 

Inevitable sea.” — Clough. 

“You enjoyed yourself, liebchen?” said Fraulein 
later, when she and Marjory had discussed their dinner 
and were out in the garden again. 

“Oh, yes, Fraulein, it was a delightful day,” an- 
swered Marjory, rapturously. “I wish it could all 
come over again. I don’t think 1 ever enjoyed myself 
so much. And you?” 

“ I, — ach ! it was heaven !” exclaimed the other. 
“ My Fritz is perfect ; so good, so kind, so noble ; I can- 
not tell what he sees in me ; I have never known, I have 
never understood.” 

“ But he is in love with you,” said Marjory. 

“ Oh, yes, my Fritz adores me ; who could doubt it? 
Still, it is wonderful that he should not look higher, — 
that he should not seek for money ; he could so easily 
get it. And tell me, liebchen, what think you of his 
friend?” 

For a moment Marjory hesitated. A dozen words 
came crowding to her lips, but none at the moment 
seemed quite suitable. 

“I liked him, Fraulein,” she said, at last. “He is 
very interesting ; he talks well ; he is not silly.” 

“ Ah, no. Fritz tells me that he is very rich, — what 
you call a merchant prince in England. Did he say 
anything to you about a drive ?” 

“ No,” said Marjory, “ he never mentioned a drive.” 

47 


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He would like to take us for a drive somewhere.” 

“ I don’t think that my mother would like it,” said ' 
Marjory. 

“ And why not ?” 

“ I don’t know why,” said Marjory, “ but I don’t 
think that she would.” 

“ But he went on the river with us to-day.” 

Yes, Fraulein, but that was in our boat. I don’t 
think that mother would have minded that. But for 
him to go on the river with us is one thing, and for us 
to go for a drive with him is another. I really don’t 
think that we had better.” 

“As you will, as you will; madame is very strange 
sometimes.” 

“ Well, of course,” said Marjory, “if Herr Schmidt 
had not introduced him we couldn’t have let him go 
on the river with us, could we? But I don’t think 
that mother would like us to be driving about with 
him.” 

“ You will tell Mrs. Dundas that you have met 
him ?” 

“ Oh, yes. Why, if I didn’t, how should I look when 
mother came back and he bowed to me and spoke to 
me and I had never mentioned having met him? I 
shall certainly tell mother.” 

But somehow Marjory never did tell Mrs. Dundas 
that she had made the acquaintance of a young Eng- 
lishman who was a merchant prince. In the next 
letter that she wrote to her mother — which was im- 
mediately after the doctor’s daily visit — she genuinely 
forgot to mention their new acquaintance until the 
missive was on its way and beyond recall. 

But Marjory’s scruples as to the carriage drive, 
which had arisen really from a matter of instinct, did 
48 


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not prevent her from seeing a great deal of the young 
merchant prince. She confided to him her secret long- 
ing to feel herself on the top of a high bicycle, and 
while he shook his head and admitted that it was an 
ambition which could never be gratified, he yet con- 
trived skilfully to foster her desire for a similar means 
of locomotion. 

‘‘ You know, Miss Marjory,” he said, — for he had 
been careful never to call her anything hut “Miss 
Marjory” since the day of the memorable river pic- 
nic — “ although a lady could hardly, even in the most 
sequestered spot, trust herself on a bicycle, there is no 
earthly reason why you should not have a tricycle and 
enjoy yourself quite as much and in perfect safety. 
Let me see if I can find one for you.” 

“ Do you think I might ?” said Marjory, eagerly. 

“ Oh, yes; what’s to hinder it? You could learn to 
ride a tricycle in ten minutes. — well, in a day at most, — 
and I could go with you to take care of you, and we 
could have some splendid spins. I will try and find one, 
anyway.” 

But unfortunately he could not find in Heidelberg a 
single tricycle, so that Marjory was unable to gratify 
her longing. 

“ If we were only in England,” said Austin, vexedly, 
when they had quite decided that it was impossible to 
find a tricycle, “ I would get you the best one to be had 
for love or money, and I feel confident that with your 
desire to ride, you would be complete master of it in a 
day or two at the outside.” 

“ I shall ask my mother if she will let me have one,” 
said Marjory, hopefully. “ I don’t suppose she would 
let me ride one in London, because she would be ner- 
vous and she would think it not quite the thing there, 
49 


4 


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but when we are in the country perhaps she would not 
mind. I shall ask her, anyway.” 

“ Yes, do,” said he, easily, “and I will come and take 
care of you.” 

He talked to her a good deal about the expeditions 
which he had made in various parts of England, and 
more particularly in his own county. He was a young 
man with a very keen eye for the picturesque, which 
had brought him that year to the lovely city on the 
Necker ; and Marjory, who was an ardent lover of the 
beautiful in nature, listened with the deepest interest 
to all his descriptions of green, leafy lanes, wide sweeps 
of down, purple moors, and deep-toned woods. Her 
quickly changing countenance, her soft grey eyes, 
lighted with intelligence and enthusiasm, were enough 
incentive to make any young man, already greatly 
attracted, discan t eloquently upon the pleasures that 
might be extracted out of a double tricycle. 

A whole fortnight had gone by since that introduc- 
tion over the wall of the little villa dependance. The 
invalids were progressing most favourably, but were 
still in quarantine, and neither Marjory nor Fraulein 
had approached nearer to them than to see them 
through the window. Mr. and Mrs. Dundas, satisfied 
that all was going well and that there was and would 
be no need for their presence in Heidelberg, had gone 
to Vienna, and every day — nay, I had almost said all 
day — the little governess and Marjory were thrown 
into the society of Herr Fritz and the young merchant 
prince. Their favourite resort when they had an hour 
or two to spare was that same little tea-garden by the 
river-side where Marjory and Austin had had their 
first serious talk. Their procedure was always the 
same. A little refreshment under the linden-trees, 
50 


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then a separation, FrMein and Fritz disappearing into 
one of the several arbours of which the garden boasted, 
while Marjory and the merchant prince as inevitably 
drifted to the river’s bank. 

“I have been,” he said one day when they were sit- 
ting on the greensward well hidden from view by a 
clump of bushes, “ planning out a lovely little tour in 
the Shakespeare country.” 

“Yes,” said Marjory, almost breathlessly. 

“ You start from London, of course, — everything 
starts from London. See here,” pulling a note-book 
out of his pocket, “ here is a cyclist’s map of England. 
You start from London and ride down to Oxford ; you 
stay a night there, — two nights if you really want to 
do the glories of the place, — then you ride to Banbury, 
on to Edgehill and explore the battle-field, and then to 
Stratford, where you put up. You can spend the next 
day there, and then ride to Warwick, see the castle, go 
through Leamington, get back on to the main road 
again to Kenilworth, and go from there on to Coventry, 
come back by Kaseby and Towcester, digress a little 
and take in Cambridge, and ride in one spell from there 
to London. I don’t know,” said he, looking at her 
with his blue eyes, “ a better way of spending a fort- 
night.” 

“I am afraid,” said Marjory, “that I shall never 
spend a fortnight like that.” 

“ So far as I am concerned,” said he, all in a hurry, 
“ there is only one way in which you could so spend it.” 

“ I don’t quite understand,” said Marjory, but the 
tremulousness of her tone told him that if she did not 
quite understand she had grasped something of his 
meaning. 

He stole a persuasive arm about her slender waist. 

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“Marjory,” he said, “don’t you think that we might 
— ^you and I — ^venture on a tandem for the rest of our 


lives ?” 


CHAPTEE YII. 

THE BRINK OF THE STREAM. 

“ Life is the rose’s hope while yet unblown ; 

The reading of an ever-changing tale.” — K eats. 

“ I don’t know,” said Marjory, “ what my mother 
will say.” 

“ But what should she say ? Why should she make 
any objection ?” he urged. “ I am young, I am well 
off, I have good prospects, I am a steady-going sort of 
fellow, and you love me, — what more can she wish ?” 

Marjory looked at him doubtfully. 

“ I think that mother means me to marry a title,” 
she answered. 

A sick qualm came over John Austin’s heart. Those 
few words revealed to him all in a moment the utter 
hopelessness of his making any impression but a bad 
one upon the mother of this girl with whom he had 
fallen passionately in love. 

In all his eight-and-twenty years John Austin had 
never been genuinely in love before. He had philan- 
dered and flirted, but he had never really loved. He 
was one of those young men who have no particular 
opinion of their sisters, and from his school days ho 
had held his sisters’ friends in but cheap estimation. 
Marjory was something different to all of these ; Mar- 
jory was something the like of which he had never 
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come across in all his life before. Her white skin, her 
black eyelashes, her fine silky hair, the serene calm of 
her manner, her gestures, her speech, her slight wil- 
lowy figure, her slim hands and small feet, the tones of 
her voice, the turn of her head upon her long throat, 
all combined to fill him with a fever of desire, — the 
desire to have her for his own, the desire of possession. 
He was like all men of strong and dominant character 
who have not frittered their hearts away in innumer- 
able love-affairs ; now that his time had come he had 
taken the fever badly. He realised in a moment from 
that one little answer of Marjory’s that it would be 
absolutely useless for him to go and plead his cause 
with her father and mother. 

“ You are very young, Marjory,” he said, holding 
her close to him and looking with hungry eyes deep 
down into hers, as it were, searching her very soul. 
“ Do you feel that you know your own mind ?” 

“Oh, yes,” she answered, quickly. 

“ And you feel that your mother will prove an obsta- 
cle in our path ?” 

“ I am afraid so.” 

“And so am I. Marjory, I cannot live without 
you, — the risk of your mother saying ‘No’ is too 
great. They might insist upon our waiting until you 
are one-and-twenty.” 

“ I don’t think that,” said Marjory. “ I don’t know 
if your business is big enough, Mr. Austin ” 

“No, don’t call me Mr. Austin,” he broke in; “say 
Jack. It’s not much of a name, but ” 

“ I like it,” she said, shyly. 

“Do you, darling? Then I like it too. I never 
liked it before, but I love it now. You have sanctified 
it, glorified it ; I would not change it for all the names 
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in the wide world. But what were you saying about 
my business ?” 

“ I was saying that if it is big enough perhaps my 
mother will not object so very much. You see, I have 
heard her say more than once about girls that we know 
who have married men in business, that they were 
doing a wise and sensible thing. A friend of ours mar- 
ried one of the Fenwick boys, — the eldest one, — Fen- 
wick, the armour-plate-makers, you know, and my 
mother said that it was a very good match.” 

John Austin’s heart went down yet a grade lower. 
The name of Fenwick, the armour-plate-makers, was 
well known to him. 

“ Yes, yes,” he said, almost roughly, “ the Fenwicks 
are rich people.” 

“ Then we had another friend who married — who 
married the Stores,” Marjory went on, with a laugh. 

“ The Stores, — what Stores ?” 

“ Well, not the Army and Navy Stores, of course, but 
you’ve heard of Sutton’s Stores ?” 

“ Oh, yes, certainly.” 

“ One of our friends married the managing director, 
and my mother said that it was quite a good match.” 

For a moment there was silence between them. 

“ Marjory,” he said at last, pulling out his watch and 
looking at it, “ the others will be coming to find us in a 
moment ; will you keep this affair of ours dark ? Don’t 
breathe a word of it to the little German woman. She’s 
a blab. It would be all over the place before you can 
say knife. Keep it dark. Let me think out, till I see 
you to-night, what will be the best thing for me to do. I 
hate doing big business off-hand. I like to have an hour 
to digest it in. This is the biggest business that has 
ever come in my way in my life, and I want to pull it 
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off. I don’t want it to fall through. Let me think it 
over, and don’t give that little woman a hint of what 
has happened between us.” 

“ I won’t say a word,” said Marjory ; “ but where shall 
I see you to night?” 

“ Couldn’t you come down to the wall ? Can’t you 
get rid of little Humpty-Dumpty ?” jerking his head dis- 
paragingly in the direction of the arbour where the 
lovers were in retreat. 

“ I don’t see how, because if I go out she follows mo, 
and we can’t go out to the band because of the girls.” 

“ Can’t you tell her you want to be alone?” 

“ You forget she’s my governess.” 

I did forget. By the bye, where are your father 
and mother ?” 

“ Oh, they are in Yienna.” 

“ And they intend coming here to fetch you on their 
way back ?” 

«Yes.” 

“ In how long a time ?” 

“ A fortnight or three weeks.” 

“ And they will stay here ?” 

“ Yes, they will stay a few days, or possibly, if Helen 
and Winifred are better, they will only stay the night, 
and then take us home by Strasbourg and Paris, or per- 
haps they will go down the Rhine and stay a few days 
at Ostend.” 

^‘I see. Well, my darling, we will keep it dark for 
a few hours, and I will think over what is best to be 
done. As to the chances of seeing you, I will come 
down to the garden wall, — what time shall I say? 
Couldn’t you slip out after little Humpty-Dumpty has 
gone to bed ?” 

“ Oh, but we sleep in the same room,” said Marjory. 

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“ The deuce you do ! Couldn’t you persuade her to 
go down to the band and listen to her beloved Fritz ? 
Kobody would know her ; she’s not a marked person- 
ality like yourself; she might be any little German 
hausfrau. Then you would be free to spend the even- 
ing in the garden, and I could spend it with you.” 

“ I — I will try,” said Marjory ; “ but I’m afraid she 
won’t like to go out and leave me by myself” 

“ Oh, try the bait of listening to her beloved Fritz. 
Tell her that I told you that there was a certain lady 
who always gets as near the band as she can so as to 
attract his attention.” 

“ Oh, I couldn’t tell her such a thing as that, Jackl” 

“ But it is true.” 

“ Not really ?” 

“ Of course it is. All these musician fellows have 
their admirers, and why not he ? He’s the best look- 
ing of the lot.” 

“ These musician fellows I But I thought he was a 
friend of yours ?” 

“A friend of mine! My dear child, how innocent 
you are ! I chums with a chap in a German band !” 

“ But he introduced you to us.” 

“ Ah, yes, I got to know him for that purpose. I 
saw him with you, and I got to know him for the pur- 
pose of being introduced.” 

“Then you don’t know him, — he’s not a friend of 
yours ?” 

“Of course not. Why, did the fellow pretend he 
was ?” 

“ Oh, no,” said Marjory, “ he pretended nothing ; I 
thought you were great friends with him, that’s all.” 

“ Why, my dear child, you didn’t surely imagine that 
I was the sort of fellow who would be bosom friends 
56 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WORLD 


with a fiddling chap! N^o, I just used him for the 
purpose of getting to know you, nothing else.” 

It seemed to Marjory, when she was once more alone 
and began to think things over, that she ought to have 
known that John Austin was not at all the type of 
man who was likely to be the intimate friend of a 
dreamer and an enthusiast like Herr Fritz. Jack was 
enthusiastic,^ — oh, yes, — but it was enthusiasm of a 
different kind. His was the enthusiasm of work, not 
the enthusiasm of a dream, of a passion, of an art. 
Jack was one of those men who pushed the world 
along, one of those men who could not stand still, who 
must be up and doing, — doing something, — a worker ; 
not a worker in those things which touch the senses 
only, — the sensuous side of life, — but a hard, real, 
determined, practical worker who would provide for 
the necessities. 

How absolutely true her conclusion was Marjory 
Dundas had not the smallest conception. Her mother 
would have been horrified if she had known that the 
girl’s mind was open to any of these subjects, that she 
was able to differentiate between stern necessity and 
sensuous pleasure. Yerily, Mrs. Dundas would have 
thought there was something indelicate in the bare 
idea of the girl possessing any such knowledge. But 
Mrs. Dundas was safe in Vienna with a journey still 
farther afield before her, and Marjory, who was, as she 
fondly believed, being so carefully prepared for the 
marriage market, was dreaming her dream in the fair 
city on the banks of the Hecker. 


57 


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CHAPTER YIII. 

LOVE THE TEMPTER. 

“ Say thou dost love me, love me, love me, — toll 
The silver iterance !” — E. B. Browning. 

They say that the downward path is a very easy one 
to tread, and certainly that evening when Marjory Dun- 
das may be said to have set her first foot upon that 
pathway which we call wilful deception, she found it as 
easy as if she had walked upon it all her life. To put 
it briefly, she wished to get rid of Eraulein for a couple 
of hours, and she well knew that nothing would so 
easily effect the desired end as to give a hint that the 
noble Fritz had a feminine admirer who hung upon 
the scrape of his violin as persistently as a devotee 
haunts the shrine of her favourite saint. 

“ FrMein,” she began, as the two sat together at 
their dinner, “ Herr Fritz is very much in love with 
you?” 

“Ach, Himmel, yes,” responded the other, raising 
her eyes to the ceiling. 

“And you are very much in love with him, Frau- 
lein ?” 

“ Ach, Himmel, I — I adore him — how much I” ejacu- 
lated the little German woman, rapturously. 

“ And I suppose others do, too ?” 

“ But certainly not ! How could anybody be in love 
with my Fritz but myself?” 

“ Oh, but I think they are.” 

“ In love with Fritz !” The little woman was roused 
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in a moment. “Who? Which? What? Who told 
you r 

“Dear me, Fraulein, how you do take one up I I 
only said I should think.” 

“ But you must have a reason. Tell me. Don’t keep 
me in suspense, — don’t keep me in the dark, — I must 
know everything. Another woman — the wretch !” 

“ Yes, I know, but she perhaps does not know that 
there is a you, — that there is anybody.” 

“ Who told you about he^*?” 

“Well, Mr. Austin told me.” 

“ Another woman — my Fritz !” 

“ Oh, he didn’t say that your Fritz had ever looked 
at her; but she’s there, Fraulein, and she’s beautiful. 
She stands near the band where she can see him, and 
she wears a light-blue dress and a white hat. Her 
hair is golden ” 

“The wretch!” ejaculated FrMein, her voice almost 
rising to a scream. Then she began, rather to Mar- 
jory’s dismay, to rock herself to and fro. “What 
shall I do? What shall I do? Ach, Himmel, how 
shall I bear it ? How shall I bear it ?” 

“ Fraulein, for goodness’ sake don’t go on like this ; 
I shall wish I had not told you, and Herr Fritz will 
get to hear of it, and he will be very angry and never 
speak to me again.” 

“No, no, I will not tell Fritz; I would not let Fritz 
think that I cared so much,” cried the little woman, in 
a tragic tone. “Besides, my Fritz loves me, — he is 
devoted to me, — he lives for me! This — creature” — 
she uttered the word as if the unfortunate lady in 
blue, who was suspected of an admiration for the 
gallant Fritz, was an abandoned soul living only to 
work evil machinations between fond and loving hearts 
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INTO AN UNKNOWN WOKLD 


— “ this creature ! it is she that I must see ! Where do 
you say that she stands ?” 

“Well, Mr. Austin told me that she stands always 
quite near to the band, where she can watch him the 
whole time. Of course I only tell you for what it is 
worth, — as it was told to me, Fraulein, — but why not 
go to the band and see for yourself? What is the 
good of worrying yourself like this for what may be 
merely a mistake, a fancy ? Nobody will know, — why 
don’t you go ? You see you are at home, in your own 
country. You are not different to everybody else, as we 
English people are. You see you are German ; nobody 
will think anything of your being there, nobody will 
notice you. Put a thick veil on and go and see for 
yourself” 

“ I will,” said Fraulein, in a tragic tone. “ The 
wretch !” 

It must be owned that Marjory felt not a little guilty 
as she helped Fraulein to make her toilet for the expe- 
dition. “Dress yourself in black,” she said. “Yes, 
wear that black hat and that veil, — it is rather mis- 
leading. I don’t believe a soul would know you, Frau- 
lein !” she exclaimed. “ And she wears bright blue 
and stands near the band, and her hair is quite golden. 
Jack — I mean Mr. Austin — told me so.” 

“ Oh, dear, dear, I nearly let the cat out of the bag,” 
her thoughts ran ; “ I must be careful. I think I must 
give up calling him Jack and tell him I must go on 
calling him Mr. Austin for some time. I think Frau- 
lein must have noticed that I called him Jack. Oh, 
but she was too excited about Herr Fritz. There she 
goes. Poor thing, what a shame ! I wonder if that 
blue woman really is in love with Fritz ? He is a very 
nice young man and all that, but I shouldn’t think she 
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would be. However, it has got Fraulein out of the 
way for at least two hours. Poor soul, how she trem- 
bled ! I did feel rather inclined to say that I didn’t 
think there was much to be alarmed at, but in that 
case she wouldn’t have gone. Now I will go down to 
the garden.” 

She picked up a pink, fleecy shawl, and, putting it 
over her head, went into the garden without encoun- 
tering a single soul. She was very early for the tryst ; 
but early as she was he was there before her, — was 
indeed sitting on a big stone on the side of the road 
smoking a pipe and evidently prepared for a long 
vigil. He was evidently thinking deeply, too, for Mar- 
jory stood looking at him for some minutes before he 
became aware of her presence, not, indeed, till she said 
“Jack!” in a very soft little voice, which made him 
jump as if he had been shot and spring to his feet. 

“ Oh, my darling !” he exclaimed ; “ are you really 
here so early? Then the bait took; you got rid of 
her?” 

“Oh, poor thing; yes, Jack. I was quite sorry for 
her,” said Marjory. “ She was in such a state I really 
thought she was going mad ; she was almost frantic, 
and she trembled so, poor little woman, she could 
hardly put on her things. I had almost to dress her.” 

“ Poor creature,” said he, prosaically, as he knocked 
the ashes out of his pipe and stowed it away in his 
pocket. “ I suppose it would be hard on her if she lost 
the beautiful Fritz; lovers cannot be very plentiful 
with a dowdy little woman like that. However, we 
have got her out of the way ; that is the great thing. 
Now I am coming up there.” 

“ Oh, but can you ?” 

“ Can I!” 


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He looked at the wall with real British contempt, 
and the next moment he swung himself up by the over- 
hanging branches of a tree and was beside her. Then 
he drew her into the little arbour which was at the end 
of the garden and told her, with many endearing words, 
how happy he was to be near her again. 

“I don’t think, little woman,” he said, “that you 
have any idea how utterly and intensely I love you. I 
never thought that I should love like this. I never 
knew what it was to care for anyone as I do for you. 
I never thought of love as a fever before. I’ve had a 
good time ; I’ve danced and flirted — what they called 
flirted — with this girl and that, but I tell you I never 
cared two-pence-farthing for any of them. There was 
always something about them that made me feel that I 
shouldn’t like to see them in the morning at breakfast- 
time.” 

“ But how do you know that you would like to see 
me in the morning at breakfast-time ?” 

“ You ! Oh, you’re ditferent, as different as chalk 
from cheese. I suppose it is always different with a 
woman one loves.” 

A wild thrill shot through Marjory Dundas’s heart. 
It was the first time in all her life that she had been 
called a woman. It was the most seductive compliment 
that he could possibly have paid her. 

“And do you think that you won’t grow tired of 
me ?” she said. 

“ Tired ? I tired of you ! Oh, it is too foolish a ques- 
tion ; I won’t answer it. Does a man grow tired of 
the sun? No. Does a man grow tired of seeing the 
moon up in the heaven ? No. Does a man grow tired 
of being strong and young and happy? No.” 

“ But when I am old?” 


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“Well, my dear, we shall grow old together. We 
shall be used to each other by then. Think of one’s 
father and mother. Of course, I have never seen your 
father and mother, but have you never looked at them 
and wondered what they could have seen in each other ?” 

“ Many a time,” said Marjory. 

“ And I too. I wonder,” he said, holding her out at 
arm’s length well away from him that he might look at 
her, — “ I wonder if I shall ever call you ‘ old woman,’ 
as my father calls my mother.” 

“ But does your father call your mother ‘ old woman’?” 
said Marjory, looking at him with wide-open eyes of 
horror. 

“ Yes, I’m afraid he does, and I’m afraid she doesn’t 
mind it. What does your father call your mother ?” 

“ I think that sometimes he calls her ' my dear,’ and 
I have heard my mother say, ‘ Oh, don’t call me “my 
dear,” as if I were some little bourgeoise.’ Mostly he 
calls her Margaret, sometimes he calls her ‘ dear Mar- 
garet,’ and I have once or twice heard him call her 
‘ darling,’ but that was generally when he wanted her 
to do something.” 

“ But never any familiarities ; never ‘ old woman,’ for 
instance ?” 

“ I believe,” said Marjory, “ that if my father were 
to call my mother ‘ old woman’ she would kill him.” 

The information served one end, for it made John Aus- 
tin more determined than ever that he would carry this 
affair through without consultation with Mrs. Dundas. 

“ Well, my darling, suppose that we were to sit down 
here and talk this business over. It doesn’t matter 
what your father calls your mother or what my father 
calls my mother, or any little trivialities of that kind ; 
you and I have got to get to business. I’ve been think- 
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INTO AN UNKNOWN WORLD 


ing, I’ve been thinking hard, and that was why I didn’t 
hear your dear little feet come along the pathway jiist 
now. Marjory, I feel convinced that your father and 
mother will say ‘ No.’ I cannot say why, but I have got 
a conviction from one or two little things that you’ve 
let drop that your mother has other views for you. 
Ah !” as she gave a quick shiver, “ so I am right, am I ?” 

“ No, Jack, no ; I don’t think my mother has any- 
thing, I mean anyone in her mind, not really; but 
I’ve known for some time that when my mother 
chooses to make up a marriage for me, I shall have no 
choice in the matter, — I shall have to make any mar- 
riage she likes. It may be somebody old and horrid, — 
somebody who will make me quite ill to think of being 
married to him ; and yet a girl is so helpless when her 
mother thinks only of worldly ambition, when her 
mother sneers at her heart, at her love, at her very 
soul. What is a poor girl to do ? What step can she 
take, — what course ? Nothing. She must submit. If 
mother does not let me have you, it will have to be 
goodbye between you and me ; I shall have to marry 
the man whom she likes, — whom she chooses ; I shall 
have no choice in the matter.” 

“ But you,” cried John Austin, in a determined tone, 
“you shall have the only choice in the matter; I swear 
it, Marjory. Let us do what so many have done be- 
fore us. Don’t let us spoil our great chance of hap- 
piness by thinking of what our fathers and mothers 
will say. I daresay my father and mother would 
object to you for some twopenny-halfpenny, absurd, 
ridiculous reason. Let us make ourselves independeijt 
of them. Let us go off to London and get married, 
and not say a word about it to anybody until we are 
man and wife.” 


64 


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CHAPTER IX. 

CONSENT. 

“ Oh, the golden world 1 ” — K. Buchanan. 

Marjory gazed at Jack Austin with a sort of fasci- 
nated horror. 

“ Do you mean to run away ?” she said at last, in a 
scared whisper. 

He looked back into her eyes. 

‘‘ Yes, my dearest, that’s exactly in plain English 
what I do mean. It’s just here. I’ve fallen in love 
with you and you with me. I cannot live without you ; 
I cannot run the risk of your being taken and laid out 
for sale in the marriage market. The very thought of 
it is horrible to me. That’s what they’ll do if they get 
an inkling of what’s going on between you and me ; at 
best they will but give a vapid kind of consent, and 
say that we must wait until you are one-and-twenty 
and know your own mind, and they will be very par- 
ticular to add that you must be free as air the whole 
time. That will mean that every pressure will be put 
upon you to marry some man whom your mother con- 
siders eligible.” 

“ But wouldn’t mother consider you eligible, Jack ?” 
asked Marjory. 

“She might, but there are long odds against it. 
You’ve spoken of those men in business whom your 
mother has thought your friends wise to marry. Were 
they girls of your age? Were they girls of your 
beauty ?” 

“No,” said Marjory, in a very meek and small voice. 
65 


6 


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“ They were probably getting on. what the old ladies 
call ‘ at their last prayers,’ — hard up for a husband. 
Isn’t that about it ?” 

“ Perhaps,” Marjory admitted. 

“And they hadn’t any beauty to boast of? They 
never had had any ?” 

“No,” whispered Marjory. 

“Then don’t you see how different the cases are? 
Your mother would never allow you, with your looks, 
with your wealth, with your manner, your everything, 
to marry a young man in business, a young man who, 
in a sense, has got his way to make, a young man like 
me. No, she will want to throw you into the arms of 
some old wretch who would turn your very soul sick, 
who would talk to you about being an old man’s dar- 
ling and all that rot. Don’t do it, Marjory ; don’t give 
them the chance. Let us take the law into our own 
hands, and when it’s done, why, it can’t be undone. 
They’ll forgive you sooner or later.” 

“ I don’t know,” said Marjory. 

“If they don’t, that will come easier than your 
having to forgive them for selling you like a white 
slave to some old wretch like Lord Ulverly !” 

The girl uttered a positive cry of terror. 

“ Ah, I see you know him !” cried Austin, pressing 
his point still further. 

“ And do you know him. Jack?” 

“No, I don’t know him personally,' of course not; I 
heard him speak at a political meeting not long ago, 
and I knew him for the white old sepulchre that he is. 
I suppose in the London world he would be considered 
a brilliant match for you, and you would be said to be 
throwing yourself away upon me.” 

“Oh, don’t, don’t!” she cried; “the contrast is too 
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horrible! I do know Lord Ulverly; he is horrid. 
Oh, he glues one’s eyes to his face, — his horrid red 
face. I wonder how my mother can bear to have him 
sit next to her at dinner.” 

“You never sat next to him at dinner?” 

“I? Oh, Jack, I have never been to a dinner-party 
in my life ; of course not,” she answered, with a 
smile. 

He had no answering smile to give her. 

“Look here,” he said, “don’t let us shilly-shally 
about this. Will you take me as I am for what I am, 
a plain business man, straight, square, true, strong as 
a horse, and absolutely at your service ? Or will you 
go back and let them traffic you as a poor Circassian 
slave is trafficked in the Eastern markets ? Which 
shall it be ?” 

She looked at him sideways. 

“Jack,” she said, “ I do not think that you are quite 
reasonable. You took hours to think out the situation ; 
you want me to decide the same question off-hand 
without any thought or consideration at all. I don’t 
think that’s fair.” 

“No, it’s not fair. There is only this: we’ve got 
no chance of shaking off that little German woman. 
We have got rid of her now; we’ve got an hour at 
least before us; we could settle all the details; we 
could get it all cut and dried, and it would only re- 
main to be carried out. Lose the chance of arranging 
everything to-night just that you may lie awake think- 
ing it over, thinking it over, perhaps crying your eyes 
out, and what lies before us then ? To dodge, to wait, 
to shirk, to descend to a thousand subterfuges to get 
rid of this little woman, and all the time the precious 
hours are going by. Once I have your consent, I can 
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get everything cut and dried so that not a moment is 
lost. You know ‘ he who hesitates is lost.’ ” 

“ Yes, I know that,” she said. “ But where should 
we go ? how should we be married ?” 

“We would go at once, — not to-night, — no, no, — but 
at once, — at the first possible moment. I would go 
straight to London. Once in London you would be 
safe. 1 should get the license and we should be married. 
Then I would write to your people, and I would write 
to my own, tell them what we have done, ask them to 
be friendly with us, intimate plainly that if they don’t 
care to be so they can be the other thing, for I believe 
there is nothing like taking the high hand in these 
matters. As to my father and mother, I should say at 
once that I had married to please myself. I consider 
marriage an absolutely personal matter, with which no 
other human being has any right to interfere, always 
provided that one’s marriage does not in any way bring 
discredit upon one’s family. In our case that objection 
would, of course, be nowhere.” 

“Then,” said Marjory, “you would do what?” 

“ Then I should take you home, of course.” 

“ Home ? To your own people ?” 

“Yes, until our own house was arranged.” 

“And where should we live?” 

“ Why, at home, of course.” 

“At home with your father and mother, Jack?” 

“ Oh, my dear child, no, — Heaven preserve us ! — give 
us a house of our own ! No, no, we would go home 
for a few days while we were arranging our own home, 

— while we were arranging our furnishing and all that, j 
You see, my father’s business — and mine — is mainly in i 
Banwich. You must have heard of Austin of Banwich.” 

“ No, I never did,” said she, feeling herself the most 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WORLD 


ignorant creature in the whole world ; “ but then you 
see, Jack, I never was in Banwich.” 

“No, my dear, but Austin of Banwich is as well 
known as — as — well, as the Lord Mayor of London. 
His goods go all over the world.” 

“ I’m very sorry. Jack ; but you know I have not 
had much to do with business, and I have never been 
in or even near Banwich in my life.” 

“Ah, well, never mind; you’ll know more about it 
later on. Anyway, we were all born in the old house 
where my father and mother went when they were 
married. Two years ago my old dad, egged on chiefly 
by my sisters, built himself a fine house about half a 
mile away. They wanted a tennis ground, or some- 
thing of that kind, and they said the garden at the old 
house wasn’t big enough for it. So the old people 
turned out, and one of the managers was put into the 
old house until the time that I should want it. I think 
you’ll like it,” he said, looking at her tenderly. “ When 
it’s all thoroughly done up and furnished new from top 
to bottom just to your own taste, I think you’ll be 
happy there.” 

“ Oh, I’m sure I shall !” cried Marjory. 

“You know, when the dad built Clive House the 
girls wanted to have that furnished new from top to 
bottom. The mother objected; she said she liked her 
old things and she shouldn’t feel comfortable among 
new ones ; and I objected, partly to please the old lady 
and partly because I felt, when I did marry, that I 
shouldn’t 'like my wife to have all the old things that 
we had misused all our lives ; so I struck at that, and I 
said plainly and distinctly that when I married my 
wife would expect to have a home of her own and not 
the sloughings of somebody else’s.” 

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“ And you carried the day ?” 

“Yes, I always carry the day,” said he; “it would 
never pay to give in to one’s sisters. Of course, they 
are all very well in their way, but my way comes first, 
and they know it. However, that’s a mere detail. I’ll 
take care that your home is what you like. The great 
question is. Will you go ? Shall I go on and make all 
arrangements for getting out of this as soon as possi- 
ble.” 

“ I don’t know,” said Marjory. “ It seems a most 
awful thing to do ; I don’t half like it.” 

“ No, dearest, I knew you wouldn’t half like it ; of 
course you don’t like it ; but think of the alternative. 
It’s almost a question of following your own lines and 
marrying a Lord Ulverly, or some such creature, and 
being miserable for the rest of your life. That is what 
it means. It’s not putting on the time for a little bit, 
it’s for all your life. You love me ?” 

“Oh, yes, yes, I am sure I do!” cried the girl, in 
greatest distress ; “ but it’s such a step to take ; it’s a 
thing I never thought of doing. I don’t know what 
my mother would say. I feel as if they would catch 
us before we could possibly get away, and it makes me 
ill only to think of it.” 

“ Well, dear, supposing you don’t think of it, suppos- 
ing you do no more than let me think of it. I’ll arrange 
everything, see to everything, plan everything ; only, 
when I’ve done it all, you’ll not leave me in the lurch, 
you’ll not draw back at the last moment and say you 
are afraid. You wouldn’t fail me, would you, Marjory ?” 

“ How can you ask such a question ? Of course I 
wouldn’t. I don’t like doing it, Jack. I don’t feel 
that I’m exactly right in doing it ; and yet, surely my 
mother couldn’t be so very, very angry with me for 
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marrying a business man, when I’ve heard her say so 
much about the good sense of girls marrying other 

business men. And yet if she did object ” 

“And she would,” he put in, in a tone of convic- 
tion. 

“ But you don’t know that she would ” 

“ Yes, I do ; I have a conviction of it. I never have 
a conviction without some reason. I always know 
when something is going to happen. I 'knew some- 
thing was going to happen to me when I came here 
to Heidelberg, and, you see, something has happened. 
Then, my darling,” he went on, speaking in quite a 
different tone, “I may take it as settled. that there is 
no further drawback. I will make all arrangements 
for getting to London as soon as possible, and when 
I fetch you you will be ready.” 

“ Yes,” said Marjory, breathlessly, “ I will be ready.” 


CHAPTER X. 

WAITING. 

“ Delay no time, delays have dangerous ends.” 

King Henry VI. 

Marjory parted from John Austin on the under- 
standing that he was to go to London and make all 
arrangements for their wedding. 

“ I shall only be away for a few days, my darling,” 
he said to her. 

“ Why will you have to be away at all ?” Marjory 
asked. 


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“ Because you are not of age, and therefore I must 
put up the banns in some church, and I must have 
a room in the parish, of course. To be married by 
license I should have to make a declaration that you 
were of full age, and I wish to do everything quite 
regularly, so that neither your people nor mine can 
have anything to say on that score. And there are 
one or two other things I want to do whilst I am over. 
Then I will make all arrangements for getting straight 
back to Heidelberg without a stoppage on the road. I 
am very anxious to do everything in the most perfect 
order. You will be all ready, my darling ? You will 
think of me .every day, every hour, as I shall think of 
you ? Promise me that.” 

“ Oh, I shall think of you,” said Marjory, looking at 
him with an adorable blush. 

“And I shall think of you, — think of nothing but 
you, — long for the hour that I shall call you my own 
for ever, with nobody to come between us, when there 
can be no more question of the marriage market and 
nobody to say yea or nay to us excepting each other. 
Will it he safe for me to write to you?” 

“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Marjory. “You see I 
scarcely ever have letters. Mother doesn’t like us to 
correspond with people, — not with anyone. All the 
letters I ever write are to my aunts and uncles and 
suchlike people, when they send me birthday or Christ- 
mas presents. I write to mother, of course, every day 
now that Helen and Winifred are ill, but Fraulein 
would know in a moment whom the letter was from, 
and Fraulein must not know.” 

“If Fraulein knows we shall not get clear away 
without being followed,” he said, with decision. “ So, 
dearest, I won’t write to you. I’ll only think about you, 
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think about you all day and all night until I see you 
again.” 

It was wonderful to Marjory that he or anyone should 
care for her so much ; somehow she had never expected 
to receive such devotion as this from any human being. 
During her whole life she had always been subject to the 
will of another person, she had always been made to feel 
that she must give place to others, that she was, so far, 
a mere chrysalis who would undoubtedly one day be- 
come a butterfly, on a day that seemed far distant. 

A year is a long, long time to the very young, and 
to Marjory Dundas the time when she would be intro- 
duced into the world, when she would come out, was 
not one to be looked forward to with joy, but rather 
with dread. She had lately grown to think of that 
time as an Indian woman might in bygone days have 
thought of the suttee. Doubtless there was some- 
thing very distinguished in being the widow who 
ended her earthly troubles in that particular way, but 
it was the family left behind who beneflted by the 
sacriflce, who enjoyed the distinction, and who glorifled 
themselves and each other thereby. None of the un- 
fortunate creatures who have passed through that par- 
ticular auto-da-fe have come back to tell us that they 
enjoyed the process. And it is very much the same 
with a young girl who must at all hazards be sacri- 
ficed to the exigencies of fashionable life. A good 
many maidens when they marry are borne along as 
ruthlessly and remorselessly as an Indian widow 
assisted by her affectionate relatives to the sacrifice of 
the suttee. 

The suggestion made by John Austin that she might 
be expected to marry a Lord Ulverly had been an ab- 
solutely chance shot, yet it had struck home to the 
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lowest depths of the girl’s palpitating heart. She felt 
that her mother might be angry with her for taking 
the law into her own hands and running away ; and 
yet that would be better than to face such an ordeal as 
a marriage with a Lord Ulverly would be. And then, 
too, she admired John Austin with all her heart and 
soul. He was so manly, he was young and fresh and 
enthusiastic, and his adoration was so palpable, so un- 
mistakable; he was a man and a lover. He was plain 
John Austin, the merchant, and he was the son of a 
merchant. He professed to be nothing more. But, if 
he had no pride of place, he had the glory of youth, he 
loved her and she loved him. 

A thousand such thoughts flitted through the girl’s 
mind as she sat on the wall of the terrace after John 
Austin had reluctantly torn himself from her side and 
swung himself down to the road below. She did not 
in the least realise what an all-important step she was 
taking; she did not, in her childhood and innocence, 
understand that she was throwing over the people 
whom she knew for an utter stranger. It never oc- 
curred to her to doubt his hona fides. He had told her 
that he loved her, and that was enough. She had 
asked him very few questions, she had taken a great 
deal for granted ; she was practically throwing the 
whole happiness of her life upon the cast of a single 
die. She was glamoured with romance on the one 
hand, seared by the hideousness of a possible unnatural 
marriage on the other. She was a strange creature 
to be Mrs, Dundas’s daughter. She was like many 
another child of a worldly, hard, even sordid-minded 
woman; she was troubled by the possession of a 
mind, — a mind that was just beginning to think for 
itself. 


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She went in presently, but there was no sign as yet 
of the dumpy little governess. When at last she came, 
it was with eyes swollen and her solid little frame 
shaken with sobs. 

“ Oh, Marjory, Marjory, my heart is broken !” she 
groaned, flinging herself down upon the hard, unsym- 
pathetic German couch which was the principal article 
of furniture in their sitting-room. “My Fritz, my 
Fritz, whom I loved ” 

“ But what has happened, Fraulein ?” cried Marjory, 
feeling that some very dreadful tragedy must have 
taken place. 

“ My Fritz, my Fritz !” she sobbed, “ he will never 
be the same to me again. I wish that you had not 
told me, — I wish that you had left me in my fool’s 
paradise. No, I don’t, I don’t ! I would rather know 
it. Oh, the treachery of that wretch !” 

“ But which wretch ?” asked Marjory. 

Fraulein turned upon her like a perfect fury. 

“ Do you think that I would call my Fritz a wretch ?” 
she cried. “ No, it is no fault of his, but that temptress, 
that Delilah, that — creature ” 

“But what did he say, — what happened? Pray 
don’t keep me in suspense like this, but tell me all 
about it. If you go on like this and lose all control of 
yourself, I shall, indeed, be sorry that I told you ; and 
yet I felt that you ought to know ; at least, I felt that 
I wanted you to know,” she added, rather lamely, re- 
membering the reason why she had enlightened Fraulein 
as to the noble Fritz’s admirers. “Do tell me what 
happened.” 

“Well,” said Fraulein, sitting up and rubbing her 
eyes very hard with a very damp pocket-handkerchief 
rolled up into a tight ball, which had the effect of 
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making her round little face shine like a tomato, “ well, 
1 went and stood near the band, — quite near. I saw 
her, of course; she was in her own place, beautifully 
dressed, a soft, gracious, beautiful woman. Oh, yes, I 
admit that she is beautiful, — beautiful — as — as a snake 
— as a panther, — they are beautiful in their way, — and 
I watched hard, with my heart bursting. I saw my 
Fritz playing to her, playing for her. I saw her drink- 
ing in his music, tapping her fingers on the table, mov- 
ing her head to and fro, then clapping her hands when 
he came to an end. Oh, I am heart-broken, I am 
heart-broken !” 

“ Well, but, Fraulein, perhaps she is only a little 
crazy about music.” 

“ No, no, it is not the music !” said Frauleir . 

“Well, I shouldn’t make myself unhappy about it 
till you have something more to go upon. Did she 
speak to him ?” 

“ Speak to him ! I would have torn her eyes out if 
she had.” 

“Did he speak to her?” 

“ I would have gone and drowned myself if he had,” 
said Fraulein. 

“Then I really don’t see,” said Marjory, suddenly 
beginning to regard the governess from the superior 
height of one who is just about to be married, “I 
really don’t see that you need make yourself unhappy 
because she admired his music. You would be equally 
angry with her if she didn’t like it. It is what he’s 
there for, and the more people admire his music the 
more valuable he is, the better for him, the more he 
will be appreciated by the director of the orchestra.” 

“ Oh, but she looked at him differently !” 

“ Oh, well, perhaps she did; perhaps he played to 
76 


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her — I daresay she is a sympathetic audience — like he 
played to Helen.” 

“ Oh, Helen was a child ; Helen was different. But 
this wretch ! Oh, I will keep a close lookout upon 
them! I will not breathe it to Fritz; he shall never 
suspect that I knew of the existence of this wretch un- 
less — unless — it is necessary to say something serious.” 

“Well, Fraulein,” said Marjory, “I really do think 
that you are making a mountain out of a molehill, and 
I really do think that you are very silly.” 

“Oh, you — you,” said Fraulein, — “you don’t un- 
derstand. Some day when it has come to you to love 
you will sympathize with me better.” 

Marjory smiled. 

“ Perhaps I shall, perhaps I shall never quite under- 
stand ; but I hate to see you make yourself unhappy, 
and possibly beginning to make Herr Fritz unhappy 
too, when you are so much to each other. — all in all to 
each other. I feel very compunctious, Fraulein, that I 
said a word to you about it.” 

It was true enough, and as a matter of fact the poor 
girl felt more compunctious as the days went by, for 
Fraulein — who had not much mind to boast of — talked 
about nothing else, and Herr Fritz himself uncon- 
sciously more than once fanned the flame by bringing 
his inamorata flowers which he had received that 
morning from an unknown hand. In truth, during the 
fortnight which followed Marjory became not a little 
weary of the mare’s nest which she herself had dis- 
covered. It was Fraulein’s one subject of conver- 
sation. We have all heard of the cow that died a 
thousand deaths. Certain is it that Theresa Schwarz 
lost Herr Fritz at least a thousand times during those 
two short weeks. 


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So, when one evening Fraulein had gone off to her 
quest, and Marjory sat on the wall of the terrace read- 
ing, a shadow fell athwart the page, and John Austin 
stood once more before her. It was with a glad cry, 
which left him in no doubt as to his welcome, that she 
flung the book down and threw herself into his arras. 


CHAPTER XL 

THE PASSING OP THE RUBICON. 

“ He who throws the dice of destiny. 

Though with a sportive and unthinking hand, 

Must hide the issue.” 

Smith. 

I THINK that evening was the flrst time that Mar- 
jory Dundas really tasted the full sweets of being in 
love. For one thing, John Austin was so inexpressibly 
glad to see her. He drew her into the little arbour 
and made her sit down on the seat beside him, holding 
her close, as if afraid that she was only a fancy or a 
dream and might vanish away out of his sight. 

There seemed to be at least a thousand questions to 
ask and answer. He made the most minute and vivid 
enquiries as to how she had been, how she had passed 
her time, and what had happened to her since their 
parting. And oh, it was so sweet to Marjory to feel 
that he hung upon her words as if they were precious 
things, to feel that the smallest and most trivial mat- 
ters concerning her to him were of the utmost and 
gravest importance ! At last he remembered that there 
were other people in the world besides themselves. 

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“ And how are the invalids ?” he said. “ The measles, 
— how are the measles ?” 

“ Oh, they are going on very well, but they have not 
been out yet,” Marjory answered. “You know they 
have had them rather badly, and they will have to 
remain in quarantine some time longer.” 

“What a blessing!” he ejaculated. “There, my 
dearest, don’t look like that ; I meant no disrespect to 
your poor little sisters, but this illness of theirs has 
been so awfully convenient to us. I shall always have 
a tender feeling for the measles when I remember that 
it was the measles which gave us to each other.” 

“ Oh, Jack 1” 

“Well, yes, I know it sounds rather a heartless sort 
of thing to say, but it is true all the same. And little 
Miss Humpty, — how’s she getting on ?” 

“ You mean Fraulein ? Oh, Jack, I do feel so guilty 
and horrid about her I” 

“Oh, do you? You don’t say so. What has hap- 
pened to make you feel like that ?” 

“Well, you know. Jack,” laughing as if at the re- 
membrance, “ you remember how I sent her off to look 
after Fritz’s admirers, don’t you ?” 

“ Oh, yes, of course I do, — the lady in the blue frock. 
Did the bait take ?” 

“ Take ! My dear Jack, I assure you she came home 
here in a perfectly frantic state of mind. She raved, 
she cried, she stormed, she vowed vengeance on the 
unfortunate lady in blue till I was afraid she would 
make a regular scene.” 

“ You don’t mean it.” 

“ But I do mean it, and I assure you she’s been to 
the band every day since.” 

“ Not really ?” 


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“ Yes, really, Jack. And once or twice when Herr 
Fritz has brought her flowers that somebody had sent 
him anonymously she has been like a demented 
creature.” 

“ I suppose she thinks that if she loses him she’ll 
never get another, — as they say in their queer German 
lingo, ‘ a husband never to be obtained any more.’ ” 

“ Oh, she’s very fond of him, very fond of him ; and 
really I don’t believe that that lady is in love with him 
a bit.” 

“Kot a bit,” said John Austin, deliberately. 

“And did you know it?” 

“ Know it ! I thought she seemed a likely-looking 
subject to inflame the ire of a love-sick lady, so I made 
use of her.” 

“ Oh, Jack, what a shame!” 

“Well, yes, I suppose it was rather a shame, but we 
wanted her out of the road, didn’t wo? and as she 
has risen so nobly to the bait, keep her at it, my dear 
child, keep her at it, and that will enable us to keep 
clear a way without anybody missing you until we 
have got a good start.” 

At this mention of the journey which lay immedi- 
ately in front of them, Marjory blushed up a fine rosy 
red and gave a little gasp, which, if the truth be told, 
was one more than half of delight. 

“ Oh, Jack, have you really ” 

“ Settled everything,” he ended for her. “ Certainly 
I have, — everything. The two Sundays I was in Lon- 
don I went to hear our banns read out.” 

“ Oh, Jack, what did you feel like? As if everybody 
in the church were looking at you ?” 

“Ko, I can’t say I did. I felt uncommonly jolly 
and next door to being married. And oh, Marjory, 
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my dearest, what do you think I’ve bought you for a 
wedding present ?” 

“ How should I know ?” 

“ I brought 3^ou back an engagement ring, of course, 
and a bangle to wear on your dear little wrist, but my 
real wedding present is a tandem tricycle, which in 
two minutes you can convert into a charming single 
for your own use. It is a beauty !” 

“ Oh, Jack, how lovely of you ! And you will really 
let me ride it?” 

“ Why not ? You must have a proper costume made 
when you are in London, — skimpy skirt, Norfolk 
jacket, smart little hat, — nothing that will look absurd 
if you are caught in a shower of rain, and nothing that 
will catch the wheels ; at least that’s what the fellow 
said where I have ordered the machine.” 

And — and — when are we to go ?” 

“To go, dearest? Well, the sooner the better. I 
have thought it all out, every inch of the way. To- 
morrow our banns are published for the third time; 
you see, three Sundays does it. If we start to-morrow 
night we shall get to London on Tuesday morning, and 
after that the sooner the knot is tied and we can defy 
the whole world the better.” 

“ And you don’t think that they will follow 
us?” 

“ I daresay they’ll do that, but you see it would take 
as long for your father and mother to get here as it 
will for us to get to London, and it’s not very likely 
that Miss Humpty-Dumpty will be cute enough to wire 
off to them instantly. Probably she’ll be in too great 
a fright to let them know until an hour or two have 
gone by. I have taken a sleeping carriage for you, 
and I also brought you from London a large second- 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WOKLD 


hand trunk which I picked up at a big trunk-shop ; I 
thought that a new one would look too suspicious. It 
has labels of a dozen foreign hotels on it, and the letters 
‘ E. H.,’ so I have taken the carriage in the name of 
Mr. and Mrs. Hawkins, and Hawkins is a first-class 
name,” he ended, with a laugh. 

“ But why did you bring me a trunk ?” 

“ Well, dearest, I thought you couldn’t possibly take 
your own, and a young lady going to England without 
any luggage would be looked upon as a most suspicious 
character. You would be a marked person, — marked 
by every porter and every official on the entire route. 
What I want you to do now is to run upstairs and fetch 
me all the clothes you want to take. Bring them down 
and put them in this arbour, and I will come in the 
night and fetch them and pack them up in this box.” 

“ But surely somebody will see you ?” 

“Not a bit of it. My bedroom is on the ground 
floor, and I can get in and out of the window without 
arousing any suspicion. Trust me to manage that sort 
of thing. By the bye, I brought you a large travelling 
cloak ; I thought it would effectually hide your identity 
and make you look more married, you know.” 

“ But I haven’t a wedding-ring,” she objected. 

“ Oh, that is easily managed. I don’t think I’ll give 
you your real ring, because that wouldn’t be lucky, but 
I’ll buy you one to-morrow, and you can wear it as a 
keeper afterwards.” 

“That would look as if I had a second wedding-ring 
on,” she objected, smiling up at him. 

“ Then I’ll have a diamond set in it, and we’ll keep it 
for old association’s sake. And now, my dearest, I am 
going to tear myself away, because I want to give you 
a chance of getting your things here. Don’t burden 
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yourself up with too much, but bring everything that 
you are likely to want.” 

It was a strange kind of instinct which prompted 
Marjory to take nothing with her that was marked 
with her full name. All her linen was embroidered 
with her initials ; but her music, her prayer-book, and 
various personal belongings all bore her full name of 
Marjory Dundas. 

She was very quick and deft in her proceedings. 
Drawer after drawer she opened, piling such of the 
contents as she wished to take upon a large shawl 
which she had spread upon the floor. Dresses and 
coats she folded and placed in another pile on her bed, 
on which she had spread a thin travelling rug. Then, 
opening her bedroom door and making sure that the 
coast was clear, she set off down the stairs, arriving 
breathless but unobserved at the little arbour. She 
returned quickly for the second bundle, which she 
managed to convey to the arbour with equal success ; 
then she went back, locked her drawers, and sat down 
to await the return of the love-lorn Theresa. 

That young lady was even more excited than usual, 
and was quite beyond noticing anything out of the 
common either in Marjory’s manner or in the appear- 
ance of their bedroom. 

“I have never seen such effrontery in my life,” 
she burst out. “ Oh, I know what it will end 
in ” 

“ What does she do ?” asked Marjory. 

“Do! What do you think? I was sitting just 
behind her to-night, — the wretch I — and a gentleman 
came up and began talking to her, — quite an ordinary 
person,— and she actually asked him to supper for to- 
morrow night !” 


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“Well, but my dear Fraulein, perhaps she gives 
suppers, — perhaps she knew him very well.” 

“Yes; but she said to him,” hissed Fraulein, in a 
terrible voice, “ ‘ I want you to come because Fritz and 
one or two of the others are coming, and we shall have 
some good music.’ Fritz !” she hissed, as if there was 
poison in the very word. 

“But do you think she meant your Fritz?” cried 
Marjory. 

“ Do I think it ? I know it ! My Fritz ! And she is 
going to have good music to-morrow night !” 

“Well, dear, you can’t help it.” 

“Can’t help it! I shall follow her home, — yes, I 
shall see where she lives. I shall be an hour late, — I 
may be more, — I cannot tell; I am almost beside 
myself That woman shall never have my Fritz, — I 
swear it ! I shall track them home, and then I will 
wait for her. I will not sit down tamely and have my 
Fritz taken from me. I will do something to spoil her 
beauty ! He never thought I was there, — never guessed 
it, — and there was only the trunk of a tree between 
us. I should have felt it if Fritz had been watching 
me with only the trunk of a tree between us.” 

“Oh, come, Frualein, he’s got to think of his 
music.” 

“He’s got to think of his Theresa!” she rejoined. 
“However, to-morrow will be the climax. I shall 
make sure, and if she has taken my Fritz she will have 
to deal with Theresa Schwarz!” 


84 


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CHAPTER XIL 

GONE ! 

Kiddling confession finds but riddling shrift.’' 

Romeo and Juliet, 

So effectually did Marjory Dun das manage her flight 
that she was already many miles away from Heidel- 
berg before anybody in the villa had the smallest sus- 
picion that she was missing. It was not indeed until 
Fraulein returned, after a fruitless assay in detective 
work and an accidental meeting with Herr Fritz, out 
of which he had come as triumphantly blameless as 
King Arthur of old, that she was missed at all. 

Oh, Marjory, I am so happy !” she exclaimed in her 
most joyful tones, as she threw open the door of their 
sitting-room. “ Oh ! gone to bed so early,” she added, 
seeing that it was tenantless. 

She helped herself to some lemonade and soda-water 
which stood upon the sideboard ere she sought her 
bedchamber. That, unlike the sitting-room, was all 
in darkness. 

“Surely you’ve not gone to bed so soon, Marjory; 
have you a headache ?” she asked. 

But no voice came out of the silence to answer her. 

She groped about until she found the matches. 
“ Dear me, how strange the child should have gone to 
bed so early !” 

The curtains of Marjory’s white bed were closely 
drawn, and Fraulein went carefully about on tiptoe 
for fear of disturbing its inmate. At last, just as she 
was about to begin undressing, she drew the curtain 
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gently back to see whether Marjory was asleep or 
ailing, having a sudden qualm that she might be sick- 
ening for an attack of the measles. To her horror the 
bed was empty, and on the pillow was lying a note 
addressed to herself It was but the work of an instant 
to tear it open and run to the candle. There was a 
note and an enclosure within the envelope. 

“ Dear FrAulein,” it said, “ will you give this note 
to my mother ? You will find the cheque-book in my 
dressing-case. I think you had better let my mother 
know at once that I have left you.” 

For a few minutes Fraulein was too dumfounded 
to make any outcry. She read the letter several times 
over and then took up the enclosure, which was simply 
addressed to the Honourable Mrs. Dundas, and bore no 
other direction. Probably for the first time in her 
life in any great emergency she was too frightened to 
cry. She stood there by the light of the two candles 
staring at the letter with every shade of colour blanched 
from her little round face. She needed no other per- 
son to tell her that the whole blame of what had hap- 
pened would fall upon her. She had been left in charge 
of these three girls, and during the past week or two 
only Marjory had been any responsibility to her, be- 
cause naturally the nurses were in charge of the two 
younger ones. She had neglected Marjory shamefully 
during these last few days — nay, more than few days — 
for her own foolish jealous suspicions. She had gone 
day after day, night after night, to the band, leaving 
Marjory to take care of herself. This was the result. 
She might profess ignorance, — and she was ignorant, — 
but the blame was hers, and always would be, just the 
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same. Still, it was very certain that late as the hour 
was she could not stay there staring helplessly at the 
child’s letter. She must do something. The question 
was — what ? 

Her first instinct was to go to the nurse then in 
charge of the invalids, her second to arouse the nurse 
who had but just retired to rest, and ask her advice. 
Ho sooner said than done. She went to the door of 
the apartment where the nurse lay and tapped gently. 

“Nurse,” she said, “nurse.” 

“ Yes. Is anything the matter ?” Her professional 
instinct was up in a moment. 

“ Not with your patients, no ; but do come out here 
for a minute, — come into my room, — I am in dreadful 
trouble !” 

“ Fraulein I What has happened ?” 

She was an Englishwoman, full of sound common 
sense. 

“ Marjory has run away,” replied Theresa Schwarz, 
in a voice scarcely above a whisper. 

“ Run away !” repeated the Englishwoman, in loud, 
astonished accents. “ Miss Dundas run away ! Non- 
sense !” 

“ She has. It is true.” 

“ But why — where — with whom ?” 

“I don’t know,” returned Fraulein, desperately. “I 
haven’t the least idea.” 

Even in her fright the instinct of self-preservation 
and to free Herr Fritz from all blame was the first 
thought uppermost. It was not acumen, but sheer 
instinct which made her deny all knowledge of the 
truth. As a matter of fact, up to that moment she 
had never so much as given John Austin a thought. 

“I don’t know what to do,” she said, desperately. 

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“ I don’t know why she should have gone ; she never 
gave me a hint.” 

“ But how is it that she could go away like this ? 
Where have you been ?” 

“ I went to the band. I was uneasy, — I wanted to 
go, — Marjory persuaded me to go. She said that no- 
body would know me. I am very fond of music. I 
did no harm.” 

“Well, I don’t know. You left your charge, and 
your charge has got into mischief,” said the English- 
woman, coolly. “You must have some clue to her 
whereabouts; you must know whom she has seen.” 

“As far as I know, she has seen nobody,” cried 
Fraulein, desperately. 

“H’m! it seems very queer. It only shows how 
much you must have left her. What are you going 
to do?” 

“ I don’t know,” said the little German, in accents 
of the most complete dejection. “ That’s what I came 
to you for ; I thought you would advise me.” 

“Well, you had better go and tell the landlady, and 
then you had better telegraph to her father and 
mother. And let me tell you,” she said, looking se- 
verely at her, “I wouldn’t stand in your shoes for 
something.” 

At this point the unfortunate Theresa gave way and 
began to cry. 

“ You may well cry,” said the nurse, in matter-of- 
fact, unsympathetic tones, “but crying will do no 
good. Come, pull yourself together and go and tell 
Frau Wagner what has happened.” 

“ I daren’t,” whimpered Theresa. 

“Oh, daren’t you! Well, I’ll go. I don’t wonder 
you are beside yourself.” 


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She marched off on her mission with a last con- 
temptuous look at the little governess. “I expect, 
young woman,” she said to herself, “ that you’ve been 
up to your own games, and you’ve left the pretty little 
girl to take care of herself. Humph I I wouldn’t be 
in your shoes for something.” 

In order to reach the principal pension she had to 
pass the entire length of the garden, and to arouse the 
house sufficiently to gain admittance. The tired and 
sleepy servants heard nothing, but presently Frau 
Wagner herself put her head out of the window and 
asked in quavering accents if anything was the matter. 

“ Yes, Frau Wagner, something is very much the 
matter. Put on some things and come out. I won’t 
come in for fear of your pensionnaires, — and be quick, 
as quick as you can, please.” 

The lady shut down the window and the nurse began 
to walk up and down as a preventive against cold. 
It seemed to her as if an hour had gone by, so long 
was Frau Wagner in coming. At last, however, the 
door opened and she came out into the white moonlight. 

“What’s the matter, nurse?” she asked. 

“ Something very dreadful has happened,” said the 
nurse. “ Miss Dundas has run away I” 

“ Run away?” 

“Yes, run away.” 

“ But where ?” 

“ That we don’t know. She has gone, and apparently 
there is no clue to her whereabouts, nor with whom 
she has taken this step. I came to you to ask what 
had better be done. The governess — saving your 
presence as one of your own nationality — is little 
better than an imbecile, and is down there crying her 
eyes out, as if that would do any good.” 

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While they talked they were walking back along the 
garden pathway to the little villa occupied by the 
Dundases. 

‘‘ You have seen nothing going on ?” 

“Kot a thing. Miss Dundas seemed a quiet girl 
enough, — a quiet, harmless, well-conducted girl as you 
could see anywhere, — looked as if she couldn’t say bo 
to a goose. But she’s gone, and gone veiy systemati- 
cally too, leaving a note for her mother and the cheque- 
book behind her.” 

“Ach Himmel! but these English are a strange 
people!” ejaculated Frau Wagner. 

She heard all that the still weeping Fraulein had to 
say, which was very little. She showed the note, she 
showed the bed, she showed the cheque-book, and she 
talked a great deal more. She protested a little too 
much perhaps, but in the excitement of the moment 
nobody paid much heed to that. 

“ The question is,” said the nurse in her cool, sensible 
voice, “ what are we to do next? We must send for 
her father and mother at once.” 

“ But we can’t send till morning ; we must wait until 
the telegraph-office is open,” Frau Wagner objected. 

“ That is so. We might go to the railway station; 
they might tell us there where she has gone.” 

Both Fraulein and Frau Wagner caught at the idea 
eagerly. 

“ Yes,” they said, “ let us go to the railway station.” 

“What was she wearing?” asked the nurse. 

“ She was wearing a blue serge skirt and a pale-blue 
muslin bodice.” 

“ What clothes has she taken ?” 

Fraulein flew to the wardrobe, the large closet, then 
the drawers. All were comparatively empty. 

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‘‘ I don’t know what she was wearing,” she cried ; 
“she has taken nearly all her things!” 

“Well, we will go to the station,” said the nurse. 
“ Let us go at once. We can describe Miss Dundas even 
if we do not know exactly what she was wearing ” 

However, when the two excited women arrived at 
the railway station they found but cold comfort there 
as their portion. The oflScials who had seen off the 
English mail, leaving at eight o’clock, had all been re- 
lieved and had gone to their respective homes. The 
rather surly person in charge of the station told them 
that the best thing they could do was to wait until 
morning, as they would find it extremely difficult to 
get at any porters that night ; they would all be on 
duty again at eight o’clock in the morning, and that 
would be soon enough. 

“Even if we telegraphed down the line we could not 
stop passengers without the help of the police, and I 
don’t see in that case that the police could interfere 
without the authority of the father and mother. Be- 
sides, you have no evidence that the young lady has 
gone to England, or with an Englishman. She is just 
as likely to have gone off to Paris or Berlin. Come back 
in the morning at eight o’clock ; you can then see all 
the officials, and if there is any information to be got 
you can get it then.” 

“ Is it not possible to telegraph to her father and 
mother ? You have surely a telegraph wire attached 
to the line.” 

“ Yes, we have that ; but I cannot use it for private 
purposes.” 

“Could you not telegraph to the nearest all-night 
station ?” suggested the Englishwoman. “ It is such a 
peculiar case, with two sisters ill and the father and 
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INTO AN UNKNOWN WOELD 

mother so far away. Surely you would oblige us in 
this way.” 

“ I don’t mind doing that,” he said, even then a little 
unwillingly. “ Write me the message you wish to send 
and I will see if I can manage it for you.” 

So the Englishwoman sat down and wrote as fol- 
lows: “Miss Dundas has run away. Please return 
at once.” 


CHAPTEE XIIL 

BLAME. 

“ Now, my masters, for a true face and a good conscience.” 

King Henry IV. 

“ The best thing that you can do,” said Nurse Flor- 
ence to Theresa Schwarz when they got back to the 
villa again, “ is to go to bed and try to get some sleep. 
We can do nothing more till eight o'clock in the morn- 
ing. Don’t stay awake all night crying ; that won’t 
help you.” 

The scarcely veiled contempt in her tone stung the 
little woman into silence, and she passed into the sit- 
ting-room and closed the door behind her without say- 
ing that she had no intention of seeking her bed. She 
lighted the candles, and, bringing her writing-case to 
the table, she sat down to write a long account of what 
had happened to her beloved Fritz. 

“ . . . With whom she can have gone I cannot im- 
agine,” she wrote. “So far as I know she has not, 
excepting yourself, made the acquaintance of a single 
stranger, except that young man whom you intro- 
duced to us several weeks ago. She never seemed to 
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be particuiarly interested in him, and he, as you know, 
left Heidelberg at least two weeks ago. I therefore 
don’t see that it is necessary to mention that we even 
made his acquaintance; and as I particularly do not 
wish you to be dragged into the matter in any way, I 
shall not so much as mention his existence. Eemem- 
ber, dearest Fritz, — my own heart, — that if you are 
asked any questions on the subject, you know abso- 
lutely nothing.” 

This letter Theresa Schwarz took out and posted 
long before any of the household were astir, and, 
although she had flung herself down on her bed for a 
little time, — more as a means of passing the time than 
in the hope of obtaining any sleep, — she had made her 
toilet and was waiting impatiently when Nurse Flor- 
ence came out of her room. 

“ Ah ! You are astir early this morning,” she said 
to her. “ My ! you don’t look as if you had slept, 
either.” 

“ I have not slept a single wink,” said Fraulein. It 
was a mistake, but she genuinely believed that she had 
not closed an eyelid. “ How could I sleep ? How was 
I likely— I — to sleep ?” 

“ I believe men generally sleep pretty well the night 
before they are hanged,” said Nurse Florence, rather 
callously. 

Nurse Florence insisted upon Fraulein’s drinking a 
cup of coffee before they started for the railway sta- 
tion. In vain did the little woman protest that she 
could not swallow anything. 

“Stuff and nonsense !” said Nurse Florence; “you 
want it and you must have it. I don’t want to have 
you on my hands with measles in your state of nervous 
exhaustion. Drink it down and make no bones about it.” 

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She was very tall and Fraulein was very short; 
moreover, one woman was of a calm, dominant nature, 
unruffled in any personal way by the great event which 
had transpired the previous evening, while the other 
was all excitement and agitation. 

In less time than it takes me to write this Fraulein 
had gulped the coffee down as best she could. 

“ There, that’s better ; now this rusk, — that’s right. 
Now we can start and see what we can find out about 
the young lady, — little minx I call her !” 

What they found out practically amounted to nothing. 
The various porters and officials at t'he railway station 
gave them every information that lay in their power. 
They were quite sure that no such young lady had 
gone by the English mail. 

“ Were there any sleeping carriages engaged last 
night ?” enquired the station-master of the clerk who 
attended to that part of the department. 

“ Oh, yes, sir, six or seven. One was an old lady 
and gentlemen, — stout, white hair ” 

“ English ?” 

“ Oh, yes, English. Well, one was a young gentle- 
man who had been at Coburg ; he took a sleeping car- 
riage for himself and his wife.” 

“And his name?” 

“ His name was Hawkins, — ^yes, Hawkins.” And he 
referred to a big book before him. 

“ Was he young?” 

“ Oh, yes, quite young.” 

“ Anybody else ?” 

“Two ladies, — elderly. One lady travelling alone; 
I saw her, — a very stout person.” 

“Not that one,” said Nurse Florence, with decision. 
“ Another ?” 


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A young English lady and gentleman, with a nurse 
and a baby.” 

“ Not that,” said Fraulein. 

“Then there’s only Mr. Hawkins,” said the chief 
official. Then, turning to one of the porters, he said, 
“Mauritz, you saw the train off?” 

“ I did sir.” 

“ What sort of a looking man was Mr. Hawkins ?” 

“ He was English, sir. Tall, good-looking, plenty of 
money, — quite an English milord.” 

“ And the lady ?” 

“ The lady was also young, and as far as I could see 
she was very pretty, tall, with much dignity, and she 
wore a long cloak of black and white check silk made 
very full about the shoulders, with a great deal of lace. 
She had on a large black hat with some red flowers in 
it.” 

“ Marjory had nothing of that kind ; that is not 
Marjory,” said Fraulein, heaving a great sigh. 

They went home feeling utterly disheartened and at 
sea. There was obviously nothing to be learned from 
the railway officials, nor did the police when they ap- 
plied to them seem able to help things further forward. 
During the course of the day an indignant telegram 
arrived from Mrs. Dundas. “Horrified at news,” it 
said; “returning immediately.” So Fraulein had no 
choice but to sit down and wait the coming of the lady 
whom, at that moment, she dreaded more than any 
other human being in the world. 

Nor was her dread without good reason. When 
Mr. and Mrs. Dundas did at length arrive, Mrs. Dundas 
at once assailed the little governess with a torrent of 
reproaches and abuse. 

“It’s no use your snivelling and crying to me, 
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Fraulein,” she said, indignantly. “ I left you in charge 
of my three daughters ; two of them were taken off 
your hands by illness and you were no longer respon- 
sible for them. That left you only Marjory to look 
after. You knew perfectly well that I was most 
anxious they should make no new acquaintances here, 
and yet you fulfilled your trust so badly that Marjory 
has actually gone off in this disgraceful manner, and 
there is absolutely no clue as to the person with whom 
she has gone. It is no use your snivelling and crying 
to me. I lay the whole blame of this on your shoul- 
ders, and of course you will not accompany us back to 
London. As for a reference, — don’t ask me for one. I 
should give you such a bad one that no woman in her 
senses would dream of engaging you for one moment. 
As to the unfortunate, misguided, wretched child who 
has gone from the safe shelter of her father’s home 
into heaven knows what kind of a life, into heaven 
knows what fate, I hope that during the whole of her 
life she will haunt you with a continual remembrance 
of your own deceitfulness and wanton neglect.” 

“ But you will make efforts — you will find her ?” 
cried Fraulein, in troubled tones. 

“ I shall make no effort to find my daughter. If she 
is married she has chosen her own life, and for the 
sake of her sisters I shall be glad to see little of her 
for the present. If she is not married, all the finding 
in the world could not undo what has been done. She 
says in her letter, — taking it out from her pocket and 
reading from it, — ‘ I do not expect you ever to see me 
or speak to me again. I feel that in some ways I have 
treated you with the basest and blackest ingratitude. 
Before you receive this I shall be married.’ And I hope 
to heaven,” Mrs. Dundas interpolated, “ that will prove 
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INTO AN UNKNOWN WOELD 


to be true. ‘ I don’t think that you will disapprove of 
my marriage, or of the man whom I have chosen, but 
we both of us felt that we could not run the risk of 
your refusing your consent. Don’t blame Fraulein or 
worry her to give you information; she knows abso- 
lutely nothing of what is going on, and I feel great 
compunction in leaving her to bear the brunt of your 
anger.’ ” 

At this Fraulein Schwarz burst out crying once 
more. 

“ My poor child !” she sobbed. 

“ Pray do not make that noise,” said Mrs. Dundas, in 
withering accents. 

“ My poor child,” sobbed Fraulein, “ my poor, noble- 
hearted child ! She did that to exonerate me.” 

* “Nothing can exonerate you, FrMein,” said Mrs. 
Dundas, scornfully. “ Be good enough to make your 
arrangements for leaving my house at once ; I will send 
you your money in a few minutes. Leave me an ad- 
dress to which I can return everything I find belonging 
to you in London.” 

“ You will turn me out like this, — you will throw me 
friendless upon the world when Marjory herself exon- 
erates me from all blame ?” cried Fraulein, indignantly. 

“ Nothing can exonerate you from blame, as I told 
you just now. You may not have connived at this 
wretched business, but by giving Marjory the chance 
of taking any such false step, you have shown me very 
plainly that you were utterly unfit for the position 
which you have filled.” 


7 


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CHAPTER XIV. 

THOSE WHOM GOD HATH JOINED TOGETHER. 

Beautiful as sweet I 

And young as beautiful I and soft as young 1 

And gay as soft I and innocent as gay ! 

Young. 

In due course and without any hitch Marjory and 
John Austin arrived in London. Never had the great 
metropolis looked so fair and inviting to the young 
girl’s eyes as on that eventful morning. The sun was 
shining overhead, the streets looked bright and fresh, 
as they drove towards the hotel which Austin had 
chosen as being the most suitable for them. 

“Nothing can stop us now,” he said, holding her 
hand in his and looking at her very affectionately. 
“ They will be clever indeed if they catch us now be- 
fore we have made ourselves safe. First of all, dear- 
est, we will have some breakfast ; then you will hasten 
to change your frock, and we will go and get the deed 
done without the delay of a moment.”- 

“ But will the clergyman know what time ?” 

“ I have already wired to him. I had arranged to 
do so,” said he, quietly. 

They lost no time, though he did not hurry her, and 
a couple of hours later, when she had changed her 
plain travelling dress for a pretty white one, they found 
themselves once more in a hansom bowling along 
towards the church at which their banns had been 
cried. 

“I, Marjory, take thee, John, to my wedded hus- 
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band, to have and to hold from this day forward, for 
better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and 
in health, to love, cherish, and obey, till death us do 
part, according to Grod’s holy ordinance ; and thereto I 
give thee my troth.” 

It is a short service considering its weighty issues, 
and presently Marjory found herself soberly walking 
down the long aisle holding her husband’s arm. They 
entered the vestry. There was the usual mild little 
joke on the part of the officiating clergyman, the usual 
tremour on the part of the bride, and the usual air of 
proud possession on the part of the bridegroom. It 
seemed to Marjory — who had never been at a wedding 
in her life before — that there was a great deal to write, 
but at last they asked her to come and sign the regis- 
ter. The clergyman — a good-natured, kindly soul — 
put the pen into her hand and bade her sign “just 
here.” 

She was about to do so when her eyes fell upon the 
I, entry to which she was required to subscribe. She saw 
that her bridegroom was described as John Austin, son 
I of Henry Austin, merchant, and that she herself was 
! described as Marjory, daughter of George Douglas, 
i gentleman. Her first impulse was to cry out that a 
mistake had been made. Then something, which in 
' her after-life she could never describe as anything but 
a foreboding, prompted her to sign the register by the 
name in which she had been married. 

“ There,” said the clergyman, when she had signed 
for the second time, “ that is quite right.” 

She looked at him, wondering whether she had not 
proved the truth of the old saw, which says many a 
true word is spoken in jest. She knew that she had 
done nothing illegal, for, strangely enough, but a few 
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days before leaving London, when their family solicitor 
had been lunching in Eaton Square, that very question 
had arisen, and she remembered vividly every word 
that he had uttered on the subject. What rushed 
through her mind with the rapidity of a whirlwind 
was that if she spoke the clergyman might think it 
necessary to have their banns published yet once more, 
which would necessitate the passing of three Sundays. 
By that time her father and mother might find her and 
might carry her off, shut her up somewhere where she 
could never see Jack again, and marry her in the end 
to whom they would. All these thoughts came crowd- 
ing through her mind during the instant that she had 
sat with the pen in her hand. 

“ There, that’s all right,” said the clergyman, when 
she had signed for the second time, “ and I hope with 
all my heart that you will be very, very happy.” 

It seemed to Marjory in after-life as if during those 
few days she had been guided not by her own will, but 
by some strange and curious instinct. Perhaps it was 
the dread of her mother and of her mother’s anger 
that made her sign herself Douglas instead of Dundas ; 
possibly it was the same cause which made her keep 
her own counsel as to the mistake and say nothing 
about it to her husband. It might have been that 
which prompted her to persuade him to put off writing 
to her father until they had reached their own home. 
At all events, be the cause what it might, the certainty 
is that she begged Austin to wait a little time before 
he made any attempt at communication with her 
parents. 

“But why should we wait?” he said. “Surely the 
sooner they know where you are, and that you are 
safely married, the better.” 

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“Jack,” she said, hesitatingly, yet breathlessly, “you 
don’t know my mother. I entreat you not to write 
until I give you leave to do so.” 

“ Of course I’ll do as you like, only it seems a little 
rough on them.” 

“I don’t think that they will find it so. At all 
events, let me be the judge this once. I want to have 
this fortnight of absolute happiness. They might 
come. They might even insist on taking me away.” 

“Oh, no, that’s impossible, — nobody can do that. 
You are my wife, and nobody has any right whatever 
to come in between us. Make your mind quite easy on 
that point.” 

“ You are sure ?” 

“ I am perfectly sure.” 

“ You don’t think that my not being of age ” 

“ That can have nothing to do with it, — nothing to 
do with it. You are my wife, married by holy church. 
We are all in all to each other now without the slight- 
est chance of interference from anyone else. Make 
your mind perfectly at ease. As to putting off writing 
to your mother, I don’t think it’s quite the right thing, 
but you must do as you wish. I would prefer to write, 
or that you wrote, at once, if no more than to say that 
you are married.” 

“ I don’t mind writing to say that I am married,” 
said Marjory, “ but I would rather wait, much, much 
rather wait — until I can write from my own home.” 

“ So be it,” said he. 

They decided that they would spend at least a week 
in London, in order that Marjory might get such cloth- 
ing as was necessary to her new status as a bride. 
Austin gave her fifty pounds, and she set out gaily 
enough to spend them. It was not a large sum for the 
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trouseau of a bride in her position, nor did she spend 
it very wisely, for when she found herself in a large 
West End establishment, — one to which she knew her 
mother would never dream of going, — she could think 
of nothing in answer to the bland enquiry of the lady 
who took charge of her except that she wanted a tea- 
gown, and in the end she bought a white silk “ confec- 
tion” which would have done for a scene on the stage, 
and besides this a white dinner-dress and a particularly 
smart hat which took her fancy. And then she found 
that she had made such a hole in her fifty pounds that 
she had only sufiicient money left for but few things 
besides. It may be said that she spent the rest of the 
money in rubbish. A fan, a ruff for her neck, a few 
gloves, and a white lace wrap for her head. 

“ What is it for?” said Austin, when she proudly dis- 
played it to him. 

“ To put over my head when we go out of an even- 
mg. 

“ Oh, hut won’t you wear a hat ?” 

“I mean when we go to parties, — to wear in the 
carriage, you know.” 

He looked at her a little doubtfully. 

“Marjory,” he said, “I hope you won’t bo disap- 
pointed ; but I don’t think I ever told you that I should 
be able to keep a carriage for you.” 

“ Oh, won’t you ?” She looked at him in astonish- 
ment; life seemed very empty without a carriage. 
“ Oh, well, never mind, then I suppose we shall take a 
cab ; I shall have the more need of something to wear 
over my head. Now, my mother very seldom wears 
anything over her head when she goes out in the even- 
ing ; she says it makes a mess of her hair. Oh, well, I 
am glad I bought it, all the same.” 

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He caught her in his arms with a passionate outburst 
of love. 

“ If it pleases you to have it, I am glad you bought 
it,” he said, looking down into her lovely eyes. “ What- 
ever you wear it for, you will look well in it, — ^you will 
show it off. Buy what you want, my child. If you 
want more money, I have it. Mine is thine, you know, 
and don’t let me think that you are going without any- 
thing you want for the sake of speaking to me.” 

The following morning letters arrived from Austin’s 
home, — from his own people. 

That is from my father,” he said, handing it to her. 
“ Dear old chap, I knew he’d take it all right.” 

Marjory took the letter with trembling fingers. 

“ My dear Son,” it said : “ Your mother and I were 
very much surprised to hear that you were married, 
and so suddenly. We wish that we had known of it 
earlier, and that you had told us a little more about 
the young lady. If you are happy, however, that is 
the great question. I have told Harrison that he will 
have to give up the old house to you at once. I enclose 
you a check towards your furnishing, as you may be 
glad to have the opportunity of spending it whilst you 
are in London. Your mother is writing to you, and 
also your sisters. God bless you, my dear boy, and 
give you all happiness with the wife of your choice. 
The sooner you bring her home the better pleased your 
mother and I will be. 

“ Your aff. father, 

“Henry Austin.” 

Marjory laid the letter down without a word. 

“ Well?” he said, looking at her. 

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“He is very kind,” she said, gently. 

In spite of her inexperience, she had realised in a 
moment from the letter that her father-in-law was a 
self-made man. The caligraphy, the way in which it 
was expressed, the very paper itself, all told the same 
story. The check which her husband laid beside her 
plate was for one hundred pounds. Marjory looked at 
it out of deference to the anxious expression in her 
husband’s eyes, and gently laid it down again. 

“ This is very kind of him,” she said; “I am sure 
your father is very kind. Jack.” 

“ My dear old dad is the kindest old chap in the 
world,” he said, enthusiastically, “ and my mother’s a 
match for him. They might, you know, have taken it 
differently after springing a marriage upon them like 
this. But, you see, all their thought is for my hap- 
piness, — not a word of reproach such as they might 
reasonably have cast at me. I’m very proud of my 
father and mother, Marjory, and I only hope that 
you’ll like them and value them at their proper worth.” 

“ I’m sure that I shall,” she said, bravely. And yet 
that letter from Jack’s father had made her feel that 
the new life into which she had gone with so little 
hesitation, so little forethought, was indeed that of an 
unknown world. 


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CHAPTER XY. 

INTO THE UNKNOWN WORLD. 

“ Faith is the sun of life.” 

Longfellow. 

Three days later Austin and Marjory went down to 
Banwich — went home. He had suggested more than 
half in earnest that they should go down on the new 
tandem tricycle; but Marjory had gently though 
firmly putLer veto on that plan. 

“ I would rather go in the ordinary way, Jack,” she 
said, gently. “ I am not very good at working a tri- 
cycle yet, and I am sure I should be horribly tired and 
stiff, and should look my very worst when I got there. 
I would much rather go by train.” 

“ Well, perhaps it would be rather mad to venture 
on a journey right off like that,” he admitted ; “ and, 
after all, we have all our lives for making ourselves ex- 
perts with a tandem. Of course, dearest, I do want 
you to look your very best.” 

“ Yes, I must look my very best,” said Marjory. 

“ There’s one thing I would like you to do before we 
leave London,” he said, “ and that is to take me to see 
your own home.” 

Marjory shrank back as if she had received a blow. 

“ Oh, no, don’t ask me to do that. Jack. I wouldn’t 
go near” — she was going to say Eaton Square, but 
checked herself just in time — “the place for the 
world !” 

“But why not? We are married now, and even if 
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they hadn’t forgiven us for making a runaway match 
of it -and we happened to meet them on the doorstep, 
none of your people could eat you. Why, I don’t be- 
lieve that they would be angry at all.” 

“Because you don’t want to believe it,” she said, 
■mth a quaint little air of wisdom that sat oddly upon 
her young face. “ But I have a feeling that my mother 
will never forgive me. You see, I know her, — you 
don’t.” 

“No, by Jove, I don’t,” said he. “Why, I don’t 
even know where your people live !” 

She turned towards him and laid her hand upon his 
arm. 

“ Jack,” she said, “ don’t ask me any questions about 
my people just now ; let me get over the meeting with 
yours, and then we will consider what to do about 
mine.” 

“ But I don’t like this hole and corner business,” he 
persisted. Having obtained his heart’s desire, his great 
object now was to be on amicable and friendly terms 
with both families. 

“Jack,” she said, “it is the first thing that I have 
asked you. I didn’t interfere with the way in which 
you broke the news to your people ; won’t you give me 
the same privilege with regard to mine ?” 

“ Oh, of course, if you put it in that way, I’ll do any 
mortal thing that you like ; but it seems queer, — that’s 
all.” 

“ Yes, I suppose it was queer our being married as 
we were. Let us leave my people to take care of 
themselves until I have seen yours and settled down 
into my new home.” 

“ Very well, it shall be as you wish ; but I should 
have thought you’d be glad to have got the row over 
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and done with. I’m sure I should feel so if I were in 
your place. Not that I can see that there is any real 
necessity to have a row at all. At all events, I don’t 
intend to make a quarrel of it. If your people don’t 
like me, why,” — with a laugh, — “ they can leave me. I 
have got you, and that is all that I wanted, and so I 
shall tell them very plainly if we come to any words 
about it.” 

“ I hope,” said Marjory, in a faint voice, “ that you 
will never come to words about me either with my 
people or yours.” 

“If either your people or mine do not keep civil 
tongues in their heads about you, I shall certainly 
come to words with them,” said he, catching her in his 
arms and kissing her passionately. 

“ No ! no !” she cried. 

“Yes! yes!” he insisted. “You have given your- 
self to me, you have trusted in me, and we are one 
now ; I should be a poor calf-hearted beggar if I could 
not stand up for you through thick and thin. Why, 
the very first duty of a husband is to protect his wife, 
whether it chance to be from her own relations or his. 
I have not much fear of mine,” he went on, tossing back 
his head and looking at her proudly ; “ they will prob- 
ably fall down and idolize you the moment they see 
you. If they don’t — well, I have always been the 
dominant spirit at home, and I intend to remain the 
dominant spirit still. As to your people, — ^why, unless 
they interfere with me, I shall never want to interfere 
with them ; and so long as we have each other what 
does the rest matter ?” 

For a moment she was silent, then by a sudden im- 
pulse she abandoned her passive attitude as he stood 
with his arms around her, and flung her slim little 
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bands up to his neck. “Jack, dear Jack,” she said, 
“do you think you will always say that? You will 
never let anything come between us? You will remem- 
ber, whatever happens, always — always — that I gave 
up my whole life for you, that I — that I may, in 
coming away from Heidelberg as I did, have burned 
all my family boats behind me. In that case, Jack, I 
shall have no one in all the world to trust to but you ; I 
shall have no one to look to, no one to care for me, no 
one to think for me, no one to fight my battles but 
you. I have felt once or twice. Jack, as if I had done 
a wrong thing. Yes, I may as well say what’s in my 
mind now, before we go home and face your people. I 
have felt that in turning my back upon my own 
people without giving them the chance even of know- 
ing what was in my mind, as if no good could come of 
such a marriage ; I have felt as if I was doomed to 
unhappiness from the very beginning; and I am so 
young, Jack, I feel so young and yet so old.” 

“ But you have me !” he urged, holding her yet more 
closely to him and looking down into her troubled 
grey eyes with a very triumphant smile. “ You have 
me, and I have you, and, after all, that is everything. 
Don’t meet your troubles half-way, little woman ; wait 
until they actually hove in sight. You are nervous 
and overwrought and all the world seems strange to 
you; but you will get used to it by and by, and then 
you will wonder that you ever felt strange at all.” 

The following day they went down to Banwich. 
Marjory had certainly heard of the place, but that was 
all. It was a thriving market town of some ten thou- 
sand inhabitants. It boasted of a member — for the 
Banwich Division, that is — who was the squire of a 
village about a mile from the town, of an archdeacon, 
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and was blessed with a bench of magistrates; it had a 
town-hall and an attempt at a covered market ; it pos- 
sessed a choral society, and was conservative almost to 
a man, and certainly to a woman. 

You could not get to Banwich direct from London, 
for it was not on the main line. At Warringby Junc- 
tion our young couple left the express train and set 
themselves with what patience they could to await the 
arrival. of what is generally called “the local.” 

There is perhaps no occupation in life so dreary as 
an enforced wait at a railway station, and Warringby 
Junction is a singularly uncomfortable place in which 
to pass even five minutes. Austin and Marjory wan- 
dered up and down the long platform, examined the 
little stall of books, looked in at the tiny refreshment- 
room, — at which Marjory shook her head when Austin 
suggested that she might like a cup of tea, — and finally 
went and sat down upon a bench at the extreme end 
of the platform. Marjory was very quiet. If the 
truth be told, she was looking forward with dread to 
her approaching meeting with her husband’s people, — 
her own new relations. She had, of course, formed her 
idea of them entirely from the letters which she had 
received upon her becoming Jack’s wife. The letter 
signed “ Your affectionate mother-in-law, Mary Anne 
Austin,” had been very kind, but it was not the sort 
of letter which Marjory had looked for. The writing 
was scratchy, and the composition of the letter ex- 
tremely formal ; it provoked comparison with her own 
mother’s handwriting and style. And yet Marjory 
preferred it to the bold and dashing caligraphy of 
another letter which was signed “Your new sister, 
Maud.” Somehow Marjory was not sure whether she 
most dreaded meeting the writer of the plain, homely 
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letter signed “ Your aff. father,” the mother who had 
penned those scratchy words of welcome, the dashing 
Maud, or the two sisters who had not troubled to write 
at all. 

And yet, her thoughts ran, it was not quite fair to 
judge people from letters only, because letters were so 
often utterly diflPerent to the persons who wrote them. 
She made up her mind that she would try not to think 
any more about them until she got to Banwich itself 
and actually to Clive House. She had got thus far 
when Austin touched her arm. 

“ See, dearest,” he said, “ that is one of our advertise- 
ments.” 

She looked up with a start, and saw before her on 
the opposite side of the line a blue enamel placard on 
which was written in white letters “ Austin’s Stores, 
Banwich.” She looked up at him with a smile. 

“ It is very funny to see one’s name staring at one 
like that. Jack,” she said, all the gravity dying out of 
her face. “ Why do you have that here — at War- 
ringby Station ?” 

“ My dear child, we have it at every station for miles 
round. It’s our way of advertising. We have it on 
gate-posts and on walls and sheds, — in fact, wherever 
we can find a place for it. I don’t believe in the old- 
fashioned ways of business. I believe in push. I be- 
lieve in marching along with the times ; not waiting 
till business comes to you, but going after the business 
you want. That’s the way fortunes are made nowa- 
days, not by sitting still and waiting until the plums 
drop into your mouth. Hullo ! It’s time for us to be 
getting to the other end of the platform, my child,” he 
said, looking at his watch ; “ the train will be in in two 
minutes.” 


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She rose at once, and they walked slowly down to 
the end of the platform at which the train would draw 
up. By this time a good many passengers had strag- 
gled in, and Austin told his wife that being Norchester 
market the Junction was livelier than usual. More 
than one person who knew the young man turned to 
look at the slight elegant figure beside him, wondering 
who she was, and just as they reached the bookstall 
again a stout countrified-looking man who had been 
buying a paper turned round, and, seeing them, uttered 
an exclamation of surprise. 

“Why, Austin, old codger,” he said, giving him a 
great thump on the shoulder, “and how’s the world 
been using you lately ?” 

“ Oh, thank you, it’s been using me uncommonly 
well,” replied Austin, in rather distant tones. 

“ That’s good hearing. I was in your place one day 
last week. The old man is looking very well.” 

“ I am very glad to hear it,” said Austin, with the 
same air of reserve. Then, as the train glided up 
alongside of the platform, he turned to Marjory and 
said, “ Now, dearest, this way.” 

He handed Marjory into a first-class carriage, while 
the man who had accosted him stood staring after 
them, open mouthed, with amazement. 

“ Dearest !” he muttered, “ is that his young woman, 
I wonder? She’s a smart-looking piece of goods. 
Then that was why Mr. Jack didn’t want to be as 
friendly as usual. Oh, very well, Mr. Jack; Eobert 
Masters isn’t one to force hisself on them as doesn’t 
want him I” 


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CHAPTEE XVL 

CLIVE HOUSE. 


(( 


What a strange thing is man ! and what a stranger 
Is woman 1” 

Byron. 


When the train had fairly started on its way Mar- 
jory turned and asked her husband a question. 

Who was that dreadful man, Jack ?” she said, with 
uncompromising plainness. 

“ Why, my dearest, he’s a man called Masters, — an 
awfully rough sort of fellow. One has to know all 
kinds of people in business, you know.” 

“ Oh, do you ?” 

Her tone, to say the least of it, was blank, and Austin 
went on hastily speaking. 

“ Of course, you know, dearest, there’s no occasion 
for you to mix yourself up with people of that sort.” 

“ Oh, no. Jack, I should think not. I only wondered 
who he was, that was all. How far is it from here ?” 

“ Oh, only about three-quarters of an hour. It’s a 
very short journey; it’s only that tiresome wait at 
Warringby Junction that makes it seem so much 
longer.” 

At last they heard the welcome shouts of “Ban- 
wich !” “ Banwich !” from the porters on the platform as 
they drew up at their destination. 

“ Now, here we are !” said he, eagerly, then jumped 
out upon the platform. “ They haven’t come to meet 
us,” he added, in rather a disappointed tone. 

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As the words left his mouth, however, a young man 
decently dressed ran up and touched his hat. 

“I’ve got the fly here, Mr. John,” he began. 

“ Oh, is that you, Saunders ? How do you do ? Have 
you come to meet us ?” 

“ Yes, Mr. John ; Mr. Austin thought that if any of 
the family came they would take up too much room ; 
he thought the lady would want all there was in the 
%•” 

“ Oh, really ; that was very thoughtful of my father. 
We have a good deal of luggage, but the machines can 
go down later. Perhaps you would see to them, 
Saunders ? Marjory, my dear, this is Mr. Saunders, 
one of our most trusted assistants. This is my wife, 
Saunders.” 

Marjory held out her hand, and the young man took 
it in a way which showed her that he was surprised at 
her greeting. 

“ The machines ? Is that your bicycle, Mr. John ?” 
he asked, turning to the young master. 

“ Yes, my bicycle, and our tandem. I think you 
had better send a cart up for that, because it is packed 
just as it came from the makers. Yes, this way. 
NTow, Marjory.” 

He led the way to the door of the station, where a 
shabby fly was waiting, he carrying some of Marjory’s 
belongings, while the young man carried such others 
as they had brought with them in the carriage. 
Austin’s portmanteau was hoisted on to the box, and 
Marjory’s two trunks were likewise piled upon it. One 
of these was the one which Austin had bought her in 
London, and from which, as soon as they arrived at the 
hotel, he had skilfully removed the white painted 
initials by means of a little strong soda and water ; the 
8 113 


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other was a new one which she had bought for the 
purpose of holding her London purchases, and this 
had been marked with her new initials, “ M. A.” 

“ There, we are otf at last,” he said, as they rumbled 
away. “ I’m so sorry, dearest, that we don’t pass the 
house which is to be our future home ; however, I must 
take you to see that the first thing in the morning. 
That’s the church and the rectory, and, by Jove, there’s 
the archdeacon himself just turning in at the gate.” 

The archdeacon looked up just as they passed him. 
Austin dotfed his hat with a flourish, receiving in return 
a salutation which was something between a benedic- 
tion, a military salute, and the orthodox taking off of 
the hat. 

“ That’s the doctor’s house,” was Austin’s next com- 
ment. Then some instinct prompted him to turn and 
look at Marjory. “ Dearest,” he said, catching hold of 
her and bending his face to hers, “ don’t look like that ! 
I believe you’re quaking with fright ! My dear, depend 
upon it, they will be much more frightened of you than 
you will be of them, but try and like them for my sake.” 

And it was with that appeal upon her husband’s lips 
— an appeal rounded off with a shower of kisses — that 
Marjory Austin stopped at the gate of her husband’s 
home. 

Evidently the family within were on the watch for 
them. The door was flung open by a red-faced maid- 
servant, whose beaming countenance was one vast 
amount of welcome. Behind her came a tall, showy- 
looking girl, then a stout, motherly-looking old lady in 
a lace cap, then a couple more girls cut on the same 
pattern as the first, and last of all a short, thick-set, 
old man, with mutton-chop whiskers and rather prom- 
inent shirt-collar. 


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Maudie, Maudie, where’s your pa ?” 

These were the first words that fell upon Marjory’s 
startled ears as she crossed the threshold of her father- 
in-law’s house. The next moment she was swallowed 
up, as it were, in the capacious embrace of the elderly 
lady. No sooner was she released from the one than 
she was pounced upon by another. They all kissed 
her, they all made the most open remarks about her to 
her very face, and the old gentleman punched his son 
in the ribs and called him a “ sly dog,” with a curious 
chuckle which made Marjory believe that he was in 
imminent danger of having a fit. Then the voice of 
Mrs. Austin made itself heard above the general clatter 
and din. 

“Now, ’Enery, now, girls, if you please, keep all 
your fun until afterwards ; the tea’s all ready, and I’m 
sure Johnnie and his wife are sadly in want of it. I 
suppose we may call you Marjory, my dear, since you’ve 
become one of ourselves ?” 

“Yes, if you please,” said Marjory, in a faint, be- 
wildered little voice. 

“ Then come along,” said one of the girls, thrusting 
a hand under her arm. “ I’m Maud, and this is Annette, 
and this Georgina; we’ll all take you upstairs, then 
there can’t be any jealousy. This way.” 

They led her up a rather nice staircase and into a 
large, handsomely-furnished bedroom on the right. 

“ Yes,” Marjory heard the old lady say, evidently in 
answer to some questions of Austin’s, “ I put you into 
the spare-room ; you can make a dressing room of your 
old room if you like.” 

It was a very nice room in which Marjory presently 
found herself alone, handsomely furnished with good, 
old, solid furniture, pink and white hangings, and 
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pretty pink and white paper and crockery. The girls 
had pointed out the hot water and the rosy-cheeked 
maid had undone the straps of her box. Marjory 
tossed off her outer garments, and, having washed her 
face and hands and tidied her hair, she slipped on the 
smart white tea-gown which had been one of her pur- 
chases in London. Just as she fastened the last hook 
in its place, the door opened and Austin came in. 

“ Hullo !” he said, looking at her critically, “ you’ve 
made yourself tremendously smart. Isn’t that rather 
too fine for every-day wear ?” 

“ It’s only a tea-gown,” she said, a miserable sense 
of failure creeping over her; “I — I wanted to look 
smart for the first evening.” 

“ Oh, well, there’s no time to change it now. Come 
along. I’m sure they ought to be tremendously fiat- 
tered that you should care what they think about you.” 

“Jack!” she said, reproachfully. 

Then he kissed her again, and they went down the 
stairs together. 

But, all the same, Marjory knew that the tea-gown ' 
was a mistake; she had felt it as soon as Jack’s eyes 
fell upon her; she felt it ten times more when he led 
her across the hall and into the dining-room, where 
the family were all assembled, for they were all in their 
ordinary day dresses, and the meal upon the table was 
tea ! It was a meal which Marjory had never seen nor 
heard of in all her life before. The tea-things were 
set at one end of the table and a pair of fowls smoked 
at the other. They were roasted fowls, browned to 
a turn and surrounded by frizzling sausages. There 
were sardines, and stuffed eggs, and a piece of cold 
ham, — it was a very nice piece of cold ham, and would 
have made a beautiful breakfast dish, — in fact, except- 
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ing for the smoking fowls, the whole table gave Mar- 
jory the idea of the first meal of the day. Marmalade, 
jam, buttered toast, mufiins, and hot tea-cakes there 
were in profusion, and were all good of their kind and 
well cooked ; but the soul of Marjory turned sick 
within her. She ate very little, though there was so 
much comment on the fact that she vainly tried to 
force herself to eat as much as the others were doing. 
But it was impossible. 

That evening was the most wretched that she had 
ever spent in all the seventeen years of her life. When 
the meal was over, old Mr. Austin, having carefully 
set his cup and saucer upon his plate, slowly rose from 
the arm-chair, in which he had sat at right angles to 
the table, and walked to the fireplace. Marjory, being 
very near to him, noticed that he had carpet slippers 
on. They were very smart, not to say sublimated, 
carpet slippers, having, if the truth be told, been made 
for his last birthday by one of his daughters with a 
piece of canvas and some wool ; Marjory always, how- 
ever, regarded them as carpet slippers. She watched 
his movements, which were mysterious, with a good 
deal of curiosity. First he stretched himself both 
longitudinally and horizontally; then he yawned; 
then he ruffled up his scanty white hair with the palm 
of one hand and patted his stomach with the other. 
Then he sought for something behind the various orna- 
ments which decked the chimney-shelf The some- 
thing was a long clay pipe, — a churchwarden, — and to 
Marjory’s horror he began to fill it from a smart to- 
bacco-jar which stood at one end of the shelf, with 
the evident intention of using it forthwith. 

“ Georgina,” said the voice of Mrs. Austin at that 
moment, “ ring the bell for Sarah.” 

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Georgina at once got up and rang the bell, although 
Jack was much nearer to it than she was. Marjory 
looked at her husband, but he seemed quite uncon- 
scious of any incongruity in a sister getting up to per- 
form an office which might reasonably have been de- 
manded from himself. He was leaning back in his 
chair talking to Annette, who, as the sharp tinkle of 
the bell resounded through the room, looked across the 
table at her mother and said, “Ma, dear, give me 
another cup of tea if you have it.” 

“I doubt it’s very weak,” said Mrs. Austin, opening 
the lid of the teapot and peering in, as if she could 
possibly tell the state of the contents by such an ex- 
amination. 

“Never mind, it’ll do; I’m thirsty to-night,” replied 
Annette. 

At this moment the old gentleman sat down in his 
easy-chair again and sent forth a long cloud of blue 
smoke. Perhaps Mrs. Austin, looking up as she handed 
her daughter’s cup of tea, saw something of the dis- 
may which rising in Marjory’s eyes had expressed 
itself upon her countenance. 

“ Perhaps Marjory doesn’t like tobacco-smoke,” she 
said, kindly ; “ take her into the drawing-room, girls.” 

“ Oh, I don’t mind,” said Marjory ; “ indeed, I don’t 
mind.” 

But she stood up very quickly, all the same, and 
followed Georgina out of the dining-room with an 
awful question knocking at her heart. What would 
her mother say if she should ever meet these people 
who were now her relations ? 


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CHAPTER XVIL 


THE RACK — AN INSTRUMENT OF TORTURE. 


“ Manners are the shadows of virtues.” 


Sydney Smith. 


The three Miss Austins considered themselves highly- 
accomplished young women. Annette sang and was 
an authority on fancy-work, Georgina played the 
piano, and Maud was artistic. They all three showed 
Marjory what they could do that evening, — for there 
was no shyness about any one of them. 

When they reached the drawing-room, Marjory found 
herself nearest to Annette, who promptly put her 
through such a cross-examination as to her attainments 
and her past life that Marjory could only stem the tor- 
rent by asking questions in her turn. ^ 



Do you play ?” she began. 


“ Oh, yes,” said Marjory, “ I play a little.” 

“Do you sing?” 

“ Xot very much,” Marjory replied. 

“ Ah, I sing a great deal ; it’s my one accomplish- 
ment. I’m not clever like my sisters,” said Annette, 
speaking as if they were acknowledged lights in the 
world of culture. “ I love fancy-work ; this is what 
I’m doing now. It is for a bazaar for the church. 
They’re always getting up bazaars here, but they’re 
great fun; Banwich is such a dull little place that 
one’s glad of anything to carry one out of the ordinary 
a little.” 

She spread out her work upon her knee, and Marjory 
exclaimed at its beauty. It was a large square of 


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black satin evidently designed for a cushion. The 
worker had cut out the most brilliant portions of sev- 
eral kinds of cretonne so as to form a large group of 
flowers. These she was sewing on to the satin with 
gay-coloured silks by a process which is, I believe, 
called applique. 

“Yes, I think it will look very nice when it’s done,” 
said the girl, smoothing her work over with a compla- 
cent hand. “ I put a good price on my work, — I al- 
ways raffle it myself, — a fellow can hardly refuse to 
take a share when you tell him you’ve worked it your- 
self, can he ?” 

“I don’t know,” said Marjory; “I have never been 
at a bazaar in my life.” 

“Never been at a bazaar 1 Why, where have you 
lived ?” 

“ I’ve lived a great deal in London,” said she. 

“ Oh, what part of London ?” 

“Not very far from Victoria,” replied Marjory, feel- 
ing as guilty as if she had perjured herself in the 
witness-box. 

“Victoria? Oh, well, yes, — I don’t know London 
very well. You see we don’t often go up. Pa doesn’t 
like us to go out of the neighbourhood for our things, 
so that we don’t get very much outside of Banwich 
and the neighbourhood. He always says money should 
be spent where it’s made, and I think he’s right. 
What does your pa do ?” 

“ My father does nothing, — he lives on his means,” 
said Marjory. 

“ Oh, Johnnie didn’t tell us you would have money.” 

“ I don’t think I shall,” said Marjory. 

“Why? How many brothers and sisters have 
you?” 


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“ Only two sisters, but,” desperately, and speaking in 
a great hurry, “ you see we didn’t consult my father 
and mother about being married, Jack and I, and I 
don’t think ” 

“ What I Did you run away ?” 

“ Yes, I’m afraid we did.” 

“ And you think your father and mother won’t for- 
give you ?” 

“ I’m sure they won’t,” said Marjory, her e3^es sud- 
denly filling with tears. 

“ My 1 That’s a bad business,” said the young lady, 
a little blankly. “ Oh, I dare say they’ll come round 
in time. Take my advice and give them time to get 
over it. That’s what I always do when anything puts 
either of our old people out ; I just stay quiet and say 
nothing. Now Maudie argues, — Maudie always wants 
to argue herself right. I always say, ‘ Maudie, it’s a 
mistake ; pa and ma have got old and a bit cranky, and 
you just give them time to smooth themselves down.’ 
She always has to acknowledge that I’m right after- 
wards.” 

“What’s that you’re saying about me, ’Nette?” de- 
manded Maudie, hearing her name. 

“ Oh, nothing, nothing. I’m putting Marjory up to 
the ways of the family, that’s all.” 

“Well, I hope you’ve been saying nothing disagree- 
able about me, ’Nette.” 

“ Not at all, not at all ; have I, Marjory ?” 

“ Oh, no,” said Marjory ; “ but I wish you would sing 
something, Annette. I am so fond of music.” 

She felt instinctively, poor child, as if in the future 
she would find many an awkward corner would be 
smoothed over by a judicious love of music, and, let 
me tell you, seventeen years old is very young to have 
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made such a discovery. Fortunately, Annette rose to 
the bait at once. 

“Come and play for me, Georgie, will you?” she 
said, looking across the room at her sister. 

“ All right.” Georgie threw down the bit of em- 
broidery with which she was occupied and took her 
place at the piano. “What’ll you sing, ’Nette?” she 
asked, swinging herself to and fro on the music-stool 
and looking up laughingly at her sister. 

“ Oh, I think one alwaj^s likes the newest ; it always 
seems to me to suit my voice best,” Annette returned 
with a gay laugh and an arch look at Marjory, which 
was quite thrown away. 

“You’ll sing ‘Laddie,’ then?” 

“Yes, I’ll sing ‘Laddie.’ ” 

So Georgina began, and Marjory, her slight young 
figure almost hidden among the intricate folds of her 
pure white gown, with her deep grey eyes looking 
darkly out of her white face, sat and listened. 

“ Laddie was somebody’s darling, 

So somebody often said.” 

It was the kind of song which Marjory had had no 
opportunity of hearing. Miss Jones had not been 
given to singing, and Theresa Schwarz had confined 
her efforts in that way to dainty little Volkslieder, — 
“Ach, wie ist moglich dann,” and such like things. 
Of what might be called the middle-class drawing- 
room song she had had no experience. 

The song and its accompaniment was a friendly tilt 
between the sisters as to which should gain the su- 
premacy. Georgina played the accompaniment with a 
good deal of loud pedal and with a good deal of style 
and manner. Annette stood well up to the piano and 
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gave the song the full force of her powerful lungs. 
As she would have said herself, she sang with plenty 
of expression. 

“01 Laddie I Laddie ! Laddie ! 

Thou wert made for more than this ; 

To be lov'd a day and then flung away, 

Just bought, and sold with a kiss.” 

It is a song full of cheap sentiment, returning to the 
irrevocable 

“Laddie was somebody’s darling. 

As somebody knows to-day, 

But love tarried late, for the Golden Gate 
Has sever’d their lives for aye ; 

But in the green acre of heav’n. 

Where somebody knows he sleeps, 

O’er a grassy grave, where moon-daisies wave. 
Somebody kneels and weeps. 

Somebody kneels and weeps. . . . 

At this point Marjory got up and staggered to the 
window. She stood there looking out into the trimly- 
kept garden, her hand hard pressed upon her throat, 
wondering whether she could get out of the room 
before the torrent of sobs and tears which were thirst- 
ing to have their way broke the flood-gates of her 
natural pride. The whole song was redolent of those 
two sad words, — too late, too late ; of the deed that was 
done and could never be undone ; of the step taken 
which could never be recalled ; of the might have been 
that wrecks so many lives in one way or another. It 
brought home vividly to her the awful mistake that 
she had made, the false step she had taken, the leap 
in the dark that had landed her in this middle class, 
commonplace family, who were now her relations, who 
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called her Marjory, who asked impertinent questions 
about her father and mother, — who had the right to 
ask them. She felt, as she stood there looking out into 
the white moonlight, that the regret caused by death 
was a clean and wholesome thing, such as could be 
enjoyed with impunity, while the life which we have 
to go on living year by year, day by day, hour by 
hour, moment by moment, may be the ghastliest and 
most cruel form of torture, of prolonged suffering, of 
protracted agony. 

Some half-dozen other songs followed Annette’s first 
effort, all songs of the same type, the type that un- 
sympathetic brothers dub ‘yowling’ and the world 
calls pathetic. They served one good purpose that 
evening, for they enabled Marjory to pull herself 
together and to control the emotion that was raging 
within her breast. Then Annette declared that her 
throat was tired — a consummation that was certainly 
not astonishing — and came back to her new sister-in- 
law, while Georgina showed off her prowess on the piano. 

“I think you said that you played, Marjory,” said 
Annette, not troubling to lower her voice. 

“ Oh, just a little,” Marjory replied, as she sat down 
again on the nearest chair. 

“Georgie plays splendidly. Her last music-master 
wanted her to go in for it professionally, but pa didn’t 
like it. As he very truly said, when girls have a good 
home and have no need of earning their living, what is 
the good of their going out and making themselves 
conspicuous ?” 

Marjory made an indistinct murmur which might be 
taken any way that Annette pleased. Annette bab- 
bled on. 

“It’s rather queer, you know, that we three girls 
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should all have a different gift,” she said, with perfect 
good faith in the value of her own performance. “ Now, 
neither Georgie nor Maudie have the faintest ghost of 
a voice, but there’s Georgie playing like a professional, 
and Maudie paints splendidly.” 

“Really?” 

“Oh, yes ; she took three first prizes at school. She’s 
awfully keen on pictures; her bedroom’s a perfect 
sight.” 

“ And what line does she follow ?” 

“What line? Oh, well, she did everything when 
she was at school. She painted that screen; that’s 
nice, isn’t it?” — pointing to an elaborate gilt and vel- 
vet affair adorned with impossible flowers owing a 
great deal to body-colour, — “and then she did those 
vases; she did them for ma’s birthday.'* She’s doing 
some now for the same bazaar that my cushion is for. 
They always sell like one o’clock.” 

The vases in question were two of the now familiar 
drain-pipe order. They stood on either side of the 
fireplace and held defunct bulrushes, and Marjory cast 
about in her mind for something to say which would 
be non-committing and not too untruthful. Before 
the words would come, however, Annette continued 
speaking : 

“And she colours photographs splendidly. She’s 
doing one of my young man now ; but, as I tell him, 
it’s so fearfully flattering.” 

“ Oh, I didn’t know that you were engaged.” 

“ Oh, yes, I’ve been engaged for ever so long. He’s 
such a dear fellow; he wanted to come in to-night, 
but ma wouldn’t let him, — at least, I thought you 
might be tired and we had better have the first evening 
to ourselves.” 


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“ I am tired,” said Marjory, who was longing to get 
away to the shelter of her own bedroom. 

“Would you like to go to bed? Oh, here’s ma. 
Ma, this poor child is tired out.” 

“ Well,’^ said Mrs. Austin, in a comfortable, oily kind 
of voice, “ I’ve no doubt you are tired with your journey 
and the excitement of coming among so many fresh 
faces. Don’t stand on ceremony ; we always call Clive 
’Ouse Liberty ’All. And perhaps you miss Johnnie; 
you see ’e’s a deal to say to ’is father about business 
and things of that kind. Shall I tell him that you’d 
like to be going up ?” 

“ No, oh, no,” said Marjory, “ not for the world. I 
wouldn’t disturb him or take him away from his father 
for anything; but I think I will go to bed now if you 
don’t mind, Mrs. Austin ; I’ve got such a headache.’^ 

The three girls went no farther than the foot of the 
stairs with her, but Mrs. Austin followed her right up 
into the pleasant old bedroom. She gave a house- 
wifely look round and saw that everything was in 
place ; smoothed back the bedclothes, as if she would 
fain leave nothing undone to ensure the comfort of her 
son’s wife. 

“ I’m sure you look very pale,” she said, pityingly. 
“ If I was to recommend something, I should suggest 
a little drop of whiskey and water ’ot.” 

Marjory positively shuddered. 

“No, thank you a thousand times, Mrs. Austin, I 
don’t want anything; I’m tired, that’s ail.” 

Her voice had a suspicious quaver in it, and the old 
lady forbore to tease her with any further suggestions 
of hospitality. 

“Well, then, my dear. I’ll say good-night, and ’ope 
you’ll be better in the morning. And God bless you, 
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my dear ; if you make my boy ’appy, there’s nothing 
in the world I won’t be willing and glad to do for you.” 

Until the door was safely shut behind the old lady 
Marjory found strength to hold up ; then, when she 
found herself alone, and caught sight of herself, a 
young, slim, pathetic figure, in the glass door of the 
wardrobe, her fortitude gave way. She flung herself 
down upon the couch which stood at the foot of the 
bed and sobbed as if her heart was breaking. 


CHAPTER XYIII. 

A REVELATION. 

“ Ah I world unknown ! how changing is thy view !” — Crabbe. 

By the time that John Austin had got through his 
long talk with his father and sought his wife, the 
paroxysm of grief that had overwhelmed Marjory 
had passed away. His mother had told him that she 
was very tired and had gone up to bed, and when he 
found her with the gas turned low down, the curtains 
of the bed slightly drawn, and her face well hidden 
among the pillows, he never perceived that she had 
been weeping. When he found that she was not 
asleep, he sat down on the side of the bed with his 
hands in his trousers-pockets and enquired whether she 
had a headache. 

“My head is aching a little. Jack,” she replied, 
evasively. 

“ Ah, I don’t wonder that you are a bit knocked up 
by it, you poor child ; I always think that my sisters 
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are so overpowering, — they are so big, and so loud, and 
there is such a lot of them.” 

“ Only three. Jack,” she said. She felt that she 
could not let herself go about his sisters. 

“ I don’t moan in numbers, darling ; I mean in them- 
selves. You’ve no idea what a contrast you make to 
them, — you look like a bit of Dresden china among a 
lot of delft.” 

“ They wouldn’t be flattered if they could hear you.” 

“Well, no, I daresay not. Perhaps they have very 
much the same opinion of me. But it’s true what I 
say, — they’ve too much hair, and their waists are too 
small, and their voices are too loud, and — they do 
things too well ” 

“ How do things too well ?” 

“ Oh, sing and play and paint and all the rest of it. 
I heard Annette squalling away to you. I couldn’t 
get in to release you, but I’m glad you had the sense 
to go to bed. I couldn’t get in to release you because 
I was bound to stay and bear all the governor had to 
tell me about business and so on. But I heard her 
yelling away at her ‘ Laddie I Laddie 1 Laddie !’ — 
rottie ! rottie ! rottie ! I call it, — and then Georgie 
hammering away on a piano as if she was paid by the 
hour. I think it’s a great mistake when girls do things 
too well. Did they show you Maudie’s vases and drain 
pipes and all the rest of it ?” 

“ Yes, oh, yes.” 

“ And her splendid photographs ?” 

“ Annette told me about them.” 

“Ah, they’ll show you to-morrow. Did they tell 
you all about their young men ?” 

“ Annette told me she was engaged.” 

“H’ml I suppose she calls it being engaged.” 

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“ But isn’t she ?” 

“ Oh, there’s a fellow hanging about her, a fine- 
gentleman sort of chap in a bank. Gives one the tips 
of his fingers and says, ‘Aw, how d’ye do?’ and has 
about twopence half-penny a year, I suppose. I’d 
like to break his neck for him. However, Annette 
seems to fancy him, and the governor seems to think 
he’s all right, so it’s no business of mine. You needn’t 
have anything to do with him, you know.” 

“I!” 

It was the first word expressing the unconscious 
stiffening of one class against another which had yet 
fallen from her lips, and Austin, not exactly recognising 
its meaning, turned and looked at her as she lay there. 

Darling,” he said, “have they bored you very much 
to-night ? I felt such a brute to desert you, and yet 
just this one night I could hardly help myself It 
won’t last very long, because we shall be in our own 
house in next to no time, and then we can lead our own 
life, and we shall have each other. My heart misgave 
me to-night when I saw you among them, you little 
white lily-flower that you are, and a thought came over 
me that perhaps I had not done the right thing by you 
after all. It never struck me before that I must be 
just like my sisters, — big and loud and all that sort of 
thing.” 

“ No, Jack,” she said, putting out her hand, “ you are 
not the least like your sisters.” Then she raised herself 
and caught his head down to her breast. “No, Jack, 
you are very sweet, and dear, and good, and I love you. 
Don’t ever think anything else. Bear with me, dear; 
bear with me. I know that I shall vex you in a thou- 
sand ways before I’ve done, because I’m so young and 
so inexperienced, and I don’t know any of the ways 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WORLD 


that you’ve been used to ; perhaps your mother or your 
sisters will put me up to things.” 

“ My dear child,” said he, speaking in tones of solemn 
warning, ‘‘ whatever mistakes you make, whatever blun- 
ders and faults you may commit, make them oif your 
own bat. You have nobody to look to here but me, 
and though I may know sometimes that you’re making 
mistakes, that you are making blunders, I shall under- 
stand that you do not know, — I shall understand why 
you make them. But it will not be for my sisters, or 
even for my mother, to find any fault with my wife.” 

For the moment Marjory was comforted. She knew 
that she had made a mistake, she knew that she had 
gone blindly into an unknown world ; but she was 
young and she was still in love, — very much in love. 
She lay awake long after Austin was tranquilly asleep, 
thinking of what she had done. Well, she had given 
up the shadow for the substance, — the shadow of class, 
of culture, of heartlessness ; she had in place of it ob- 
tained the substance of a real, loyal, deep, and true 
love : with that she must be — she would be — content. 
Even if Jack was not quite the merchant prince that 
she had believed, and it was more than possible that 
her mother would never take her back into the place 
that had been hers before, she would make herself 
happy in this new life. After all. Jack’s people had 
been kindness itself, — they had done everything that 
they knew to give her a hearty welcome, they had 
taken her as much on trust as she had taken them, and 
possibly, she reflected, they were as much disappointed 
with her as she had been with her new relations ; or, 
if not disappointed, possibly she had been as much of 
a revelation to them as they had been to her. So she 
must make the best of it. As soon as she had seen her 
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new home, she reflected, she would write to her mother 
and tell her everything, and perhaps after a little while 
had gone by, she and Jack would go up to London 
together and see them all, and things would be fairly 
straight between them. 

It was with this comforting assurance in her heart 
that she at length dropped to sleep that first night 
under the roof of her husband’s people. 

When she awoke in the morning things looked more 
rosy. A nice little tea-tray with a covered plate of 
hot toast came up betimes to their bedside, with a 
kindly message, “Missis’s love, and how was Mrs. 
John ? Was there anything she would like else ?” 

Marjory sent a reply saying that she was much 
better and had need of nothing ; and while they ate 
their toast and drank their tea, Jack told her what 
was to be the order of the day. 

“ You know, dearest,” he said, “ I can’t help being 
frightfully busy for a few days. I have had such a 
spell away, and the governor depends so much on me 
for everything, that I must relieve him a little and get 
everything straight again. Do you think you could be 
ready to go down with me by ten o’clock ? I could 
show you the house, and perhaps you wouldn’t mind 
walking back by yourself.” 

“ Oh, yes, I can be ready ; of course I can be ready. 
It’s quite early, — ever so early, — only half-past seven. 
What time do they have breakfast ?” 

“At nine sharp. That gives me plenty of time to 
get down to business well before ten. I expect, after 
all,” he went on, “that we shall have to go to London 
for a good deal of our furniture, for I don’t expect you 
will care very much for the things we can get in this 
neighbourhood.” 


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However, they agreed that they could definitely set- 
tle all that later on ; and Marjory, when breakfast was 
over, dressed herself in order that she might walk down 
to the village with Jack and see her future home. 

“ Do you want to go by yourselves or shall I come 
with you ?” asked Annette, who was not blessed with 
delicacy of feeling and liked to be in the swim of 
everything. 

“ My dear Annette, let them go by themselves,” put 
in Mrs. Austin, sharply ; “ they’ll do very well without 
you.” 

So the young husband and wife set oif together. 
Marjory looked dainty and charming in her neat tailor- 
made gown and simple sailor-hat with its white ribbon. 

“ She’s dull, but she’s stylish-looking,” said Annette 
to Georgina, as they watched the pair go down the 
road. “ I suppose that’s what attracted Johnnie.” 

“ Oh, she’s very pretty,” returned Georgina, “ and 
Johnnie is madly in love with her.” 

“ Which is more, if you ask me,” said Annette, 
sharply, “than she is with Johnnie.” 

More than one person who met them commented on 
the young wife’s charming looks, and John Austin was 
a very proud young man indeed that morning as he 
walked up the village street beside his wife. 

“See,” he said at last, “there’s the house. Jolly, 
old-fashioned place, isn’t it ?” 

Marjory looked in the direction in which he pointed. 
The road had suddenly widened into a huge old-fash- 
ioned square, the whole of one side of which was 
taken up by several substantial-looking houses of two 
stories in height, which had evidently all been thrown 
into one. Some empty windows above showed that 
part of it was at that moment untenanted. The upper, 
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part was divided from the lower by an enormous board 
running the entire length of the house, on which was 
written “ Austin’s Stores.” For a moment Marjory was 
too thoroughly astounded to speak ; then she looked at 
Jack and said, in a curiously strained voice, “Why, 
Jack, it’s a shop !” 


CHAPTEE XIX. 

A MIGHTY EFFORT. 

“ Love’s a virtue for heroes.” — E. B. Browning. 

W HEN Marjory uttered those three astonished words, 
“ It’s a shop !” her husband turned and looked at her 
with a surprise as great as her own. 

“ Why, my dear child,” he said, “ what did you ex- 
pect it was ?” 

“ But is that the house we’ve got to live in ?” said 
Marjory. 

“ Why, of course it is ; it’s the best house in Ban- 
wich. I never could understand why the girls were 
so keen on egging the governor into building Clive 
House ; beastly, inconvenient, chilly, unhealthy place.” 

Marjory said nothing. 

By that time they had got half-way across the 
square, and Marjory saw that quite half a dozen houses 
had been thrown into one. Tbere were several dis- 
tinct windows under the mammoth sign-board. In 
one a young man and young woman were busily occu- 
pied in arranging articles in the drapery and millinery 
line, in another all manner of groceries were cunningly 
displayed, a third contained butter, ham, bacon, and 
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cheese, great bladders of lard like abnormally bald 
heads, strings of sausages, and smoked tongues. There 
was a department for ironmongery and the smaller 
agricultural implements, and also dairy fittings. A 
large placard indicated the price of coal, the rest of the 
window being devoted to lamps, gas-fittings, and plumb- 
ing arrangements. 

“ Come and see the windows first and give me your 
opinion on them,” said Austin, who was as proud of 
showing off his great business as he might have been 
of showing off a great family estate. 

And Marjory made the, to her, hideous parade with 
her heart standing still with what almost amounted to 
terror. 

“This window, of course, is no criterion,” he said, 
stopping before the drapery department. “ You must 
let them make you a dress or two, dearest ; they will 
be awfully cut up if they don’t have some work to do 
for the bride. If you want to please everybody very 
much, you will come in and choose something now. 
And besides that,” he added, business instinct cropping 
uppermost, “this is just the slack time. In another 
fortnight there will be what we generally call the 
autumn rush.” 

Marjory did not answer ; she was apparently deeply 
absorbed in the contents of the window. She was con- 
scious that Austin’s eyes were fixed upon her and that 
he was waiting for her reply. 

“That is a pretty hat. Jack,” she said, pointing in 
her anguish to a hideous travesty of the fashion marked 
3/lU. 

“ That ! Oh, my dear, you might call that pretty for 
a little maid-servant in the village, but it is not worth 
your looking at !” he exclaimed. “ I daresay they’ve 
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got some models inside that are really worthy of atten- 
tion, but they never put their best things in the win- 
dow. But let us go in by this door, then I can introduce 
you to the head of this department, — really a very su- 
perior person who thoroughly understands her busi- 
ness.” 

He went in before her, holding the door open for her 
to pass, and Marjory, scarce knowing whether she was 
standing on her head or her heels, followed him. They 
were met as soon as they crossed the threshold by a 
rather handsome middle-aged woman, whose face lighted 
up with a smile as she caught sight of them. 

“Ah, Mr. John, is that you?” she said, pleasantly. 

“ Good-morning, Mrs. O’Brien,” he replied, holding 
out his hand. “ Let me introduce my wife to you.” 

Mrs. O’Brien held out her hand to Marjory, 

“ I’m sure I’m very pleased to meet you, Mrs. John,” 
she said, in a tone of perfect equality. “ I hope, for the 
good of the house, that you are going to give us an 
order whilst you are here. The work-room will be 
very disappointed if it doesn’t have the honour of 
making something for the bride.” 

“ Oh, yes, my wife will give an order,” said Austin, 
answering for Marjory. 

The interview ended by Maijory’s choosing black 
silk for a dress and arranging to have her London- 
made tea-gown copied in a rich dark silk. 

“ You could be measured when you have seen the 
house, dearest,” he said, looking at his watch a little 
impatiently. “ I have a great deal to get through this 
morning, and I can show you the rest of the business 
another time. The house, however, I should like you 
to see at once. — Mrs. John will come back presently, 
and you can see about her measures,” he added, turn- 
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iDg to Mrs. O’Brien. — “You see,” he continued to Mar- 
jory, leading her down a long passage with a door to 
right and to left of it and a door also into the garden, 
“you see, darling, that door leads into the business side 
of the house, where all the assistants live. Oh, yes, 
they live indoors with a housekeeper and a regular 
staff of servants. This is the old house in which I 
was born, and which was, indeed, the original business. 
The manager of the grocery department, who is mar- 
ried, has been living here for some little time, but always 
on the condition that he turned out if I should require it. 
You see, it is quite private and shut off, and it is such 
a jolly, roomy old house, I feel sure you will like it 
better than any of the stucco and painted new villas 
that are all draughts and green wood. Besides, we get 
a very jolly garden here, where you can be as private 
from the business as if you were a hundred miles 
away.” He pushed open a door which led into a 
square old-fashioned hall. “ These houses were once,” 
he said by way of explanation, as Marjory stood look- 
ing round, “ the half-dozen fashionable residences of 
Banwich when Banwich was a great posting town. 
The White Hart is all that is left of the old hostelry 
that used to be one of the most celebrated in this part 
of the world. It makes a very poor show nowadays. 
We have acquired all the stabling and granaries, and 
use them in the business. Now, this,” he said, “ is the 
dining-room. Isn’t it a jolly room ?” 

It certainly was a spacious and dignified apartment, 
panelled and painted in green oak, at present very 
shabby and the worse for wear. It had three windows 
looking on to the street. These all had deep em- 
brasures and window-seats. The only modern note in 
the room was the handsome grate and tiled hearth, 
ise" 


INTO AN UNKNOWN AYOKLD 


My mother had that put in,” said Austin, seeing 
her glance at it. “ The old chimney smoked and there 
was always a draught. I believe when they went to 
Clive House that the old lady grudged leaving that 
grate behind her more than anything else. I’m sure 
she will be quite pleased to think that some of the 
family will use it.” 

“ It is very nice,” said Marjory. 

“ We shall have to have this room painted, of course; 
would you have it grained again ?” 

“ I don’t think I know,” said Marjory. “ I don’t 
think I like this imitation oak.” 

“ You would prefer a plain colour ? That’s just my 
idea. It’s a very light and sunny room, — shall we have 
it all done in one colour or in two shades of — terra 
cotta ?” 

Marjory stood for a moment holding her hand to her 
eyes. She was standing immediately in front of the 
fireplace, and Austin thought that she was deeply con- 
sidering the question then uppermost in his mind ; she 
was, however, only trying to suflSciently pull herself 
together to realise that this was to be her home, to re- 
alise that she must take an interest, that she must hide 
from him, of all people, the terrible revelation that 
this visit had been to her. In that moment she had 
even forgotten the question which had dwelt most 
vividly in her mind since her arrival at Clive House, — 
the question which asked what her mother would say 
if she could see the family into which she had married. 

“ Marjory,” she said to herself, “Marjory, you must 
think, — you must act ; you are no longer a girl, you 
are a woman, you have got to make decisions. What 
was it he asked me?” her thoughts ran, as she still 
held her hand hard-pressed over her eyes. “ Oh, it 
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was about the colour of this room. He thinks my 
taste is exquisite. My mother always said I had good 
taste. Colour — ^walls ? Oh, be quick, brain, — think !” 
She took her hand away from her eyes and looked 
found the room again, walked to the windows, then to 
the door, still trying to force her brain to form a 
definite opinion. 

“I should paint the walls — the panels — a medium 
brown,” she said, “ about the colour of your glove, and 
I should pick them out with black, — jet-black.” 

“ With black ?” 

“ Jet-black,” she repeated. “ I should have the doors 
black and the chimney-shelf, it is so high and so pretty. 
I should have carved oak furniture as dark as possible, 
a Turkey carpet in very gay colours, and crimson cur- 
tains of that stuff that is like velvet — that isn’t velvet, 
— I don’t know what you call it — made quite plainly 
and edged with a thick silk cord of the same colour.” 

Austin was a business man before everything else ; 
he whipped out a pocket-book and jotted down her 
ideas. 

Won’t that look rather dark?” he asked. 

“ Ko,” said Marjory, “ I don’t think it will look at all 
dark. We must only have blue china in this room ; tall 
vases there, plates on the sideboard and a few on that 
dado rail, pictures — have you any pictures. Jack?” 

“ No, my dear child, none at all, but we shall get 
them by degrees ; we don’t want to furnish right off; 
indeed, I don’t want to spend more than a certain 
amount. We will furnish just what rooms we want 
and we will furnish them to your taste. This is to be 
your home, — it doesn’t matter to me, — it is to be your 
home and it shall be furnished to your taste. What 
pleases you will more than satisfy me.” 

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She looked at him doubtfully, her face working, her 
heart well-nigh to bursting. 

“ Oh, Jack,” she said, at last, “ you’re too good to 
me ; it is so little I shall ever be able to do for you, — 
almost nothing.” 

“ What nonsense !” he said, sharply, and at the same 
time gathering her into his arms and holding her close 
to him. “You have given yourself to me. Surely 
you must see the difference between you and us. Why, 
when I looked at you last night — oh, well, there, I 
won’t say it; they’re my own people and I won’t 
speak against them ; they are as they are, — we can 
none of us help it, — but you are different, my little lady 
wife, and I want to make a shrine worthy of you.” 

She clung to him for a moment and felt that what- 
ever it had cost her, this man’s love was worth having ; 
whatever his people were, he was different ; that, al- 
though she had been deceived, she had been in no way 
willingly misled by the man whom she had mar- 
ried. 

Austin kissed her a great many times, so that she 
was in a measure comforted ; then the business man 
cropped up again and the lover faded away. 

“My dearest,” he said, “it is very sweet and delight- 
ful dawdling about here with you, but I’ve got a lot of 
work to do this morning, and wo must get on. Come 
and see the drawing-room.” 

The drawing-room was as delightful an apartment 
as the dining-room. It also was panelled; the walls 
were painted a hideous apple-green, and the room was 
further disfigured by a frightful white marble mantel- 
shelf, which, with its carvings, its grass-green tiled 
hearth, and its heavy white marble fender, looked to 
Marjory like a grave. The windows — counterparts of 
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those in the dining-room — looked out upon the charm- 
ing, old-lashioned garden, with turf that was evidently 
the growth of ages, and some fine old trees. 

By this time Marjory had got herself well under 
control. Austin’s great love for her, so freely ex- 
pressed, seemed to give her strength and fortitude. 

“This is a beautiful room,” she said, as she looked 
round. 

“ I am so glad you like it, darling. Of course, this 
ghastly green is dreadful.” 

“ Oh, dreadful !” said Marjory. “ And tell me, did 
they have that crimson furniture in it ?” 

“Yes, they did,” he replied; “and hideous it was. 
I always told my mother so. Ah, I expect you’ll show 
them the way round in furnishing. Now, what shall 
we do with this ?” 

“ I think I would have it painted entirely white,” 
said Marjory, — “ entirely white ; an all-coloured carpet, 
— no pattern, — a thick, soft carpet, every colour and 
no colour, — you know what I mean. I would stain 
the boards — not too dark — round the edges, you know, 
and I would have bright yellow hangings, — yes, bright 
yellow, — they look well against white, and it won’t 
matter if we have no pictures. The furniture should 
be dark wood; the coverings — cushions and things, 
you know — golden brown ; everywhere touches of 
bright blue. Couldn’t you have those tiles taken up. 
Jack?” she asked, pathetically. “That mantel-shelf 
is out of all keeping with this old room ; it looks to 
me like a grave, — a white marble grave with a white 
coping round it, — a very well-kept grave, with green 
grass in the middle.” 

Austin burst out laughing. 

“ My dearest child, if it will give you a moment’s 
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pleasure, you can have the old wooden mantelpiece 
put hack again in the place of that one.” 

“Can I, really?” 

“ Yes. I should leave the grate and I should leave 
the coping if I were you, and have a bright-blue tiled 
hearth instead of the green one. The only thing is that 
you will have to run the gauntlet of my mother’s dis- 
may and displeasure.” 

“ Oh, well,” said Marjory, “ it isn’t worth while to do 
that. After all, the white marble won’t show much 
against the white paint ; but I would like to have the 
blue tiles, — those green ones are very ugly.” 

“That is easily managed,” said Jack. “Then I’ll 
start the workmen on to these two rooms at once. 
You see, dearest, we shall do all this ourselves, and 
supply the carpets, too, and then, I think, you and I 
will run up to London and choose the most important 
pieces of furniture.” 


CHAPTER XX. 

BETWEEN TWO WORLDS. 

“ Then let come what may.” — Tennyson. 

At last, Marjory, having decided on the decoration 
of the hall, the staircase, and such of the bedrooms as 
they intended to furnish, having submitted herself to 
the hands of the lady who ruled over the dressmaking 
part of the establishment, got away from Austin’s 
Stores and walked slowly back in the direction of Clive 
House. She was in no hurry to reach it. She knew 
that once she crossed the threshold she would have 
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but little opportunity for a quiet think* It was by 
that time a little after twelve o’clock ; the dinner-hour 
at Clive House was half-past one. She knew nobody, 
she had nowhere that she could go to be quiet, and in 
her desperation she turned into the churchyard, which 
was open, and sat down upon a bench which stood 
invitingly beside the pathway. How quiet it all was ! 
What a contrast it was to and what a relief from the 
bustle of the great business, with its many departments 
and its nineteen outlying branches I It seemed to 
Marjory as if she had come out of a great human hive, 
and as if she herself was the only drone of them all. 

So she sat down in the quiet of the churchyard to 
think over the situation in which she found herself. 
When she had taken her fate into her own hands, she 
had married for love and in dread of being thrown one 
day into the arms of some elderly bridegroom with a 
title and a white waistcoat, — a Marquis of Sievers. In 
a sense she had gone out of the frying-pan into the 
fire ; by a curious chain of circumstances she had been 
deceived ; not willingly, oh, no, she could never accuse 
Jack of that, but by her own ignorance of the world, 
her own youth and inexperience, partly by her mother’s 
coldness and want of sympathy, and partly by the in- 
fluence of the gushing little German governess, with 
her enthusiastic dissertations on love and suchlike. 
She wondered, certainly for the first time since she had 
left Heidelberg, what had happened to Fraulein, — 
whether the blame of her disappearance had fallen on 
her, or whether she was back in Eaton Square in charge 
of Helen and Winifred? This, however, was imma- 
terial. The great question, the great circumstance 
which Marjory Austin had to face, was the fact that 
she was now married, that she was married to a shop- 
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keeper, that she had left her own class absolutely be- 
hind her. It all came home to her in the solitary hour 
she spent under the churchyard trees. She had burned 
her boats behind her, not only the boats which had 
bridged the gulf between herself and her family, but 
also those between herself and her class. She was very 
young, and she was utterly inexperienced, but it came 
home to her in that quiet hour that she had done with 
her own people forever, — both those who were near 
and dear and those who were but barely in touch with 
her. 

In her own mind she went over an imaginary inter- 
view with her mother, and she found herself shudder- 
ing as though a blast of ice had struck her. There 
was only the one course open to her. She had taken 
a leap in the dark, she had jumped out of the frying- 
pan, she had walked deliberately into an unknown 
world. Well, she had done with the old world and 
the old world had done with her, there remained for 
her nothing but to make the best of the new; there 
was no jumping back into the frying pan even though 
she found herself in the fire. A leap in the dark may 
land you ill or well, but having made the leap, you 
cannot retrace your steps ; when you have landed 
yourself in the unknown, it is not possible to make for 
the haven whence you came. No, she had taken her 
life into her own hands, she had married Jack, and 
she thought of him just as she had always done ; that 
his people were appalling, that his people were such as 
she had never been brought into contact with in all 
her life before, did not alter the fact that she was now 
Jack’s wife or that she loved him. 

It was well for her that she had turned in at the 
quiet churchyard gate, for in that hour of meditation, 
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when she was free from all the irritating interruptions 
of everyday life, she came to a definite conclusion as 
to the course of action that she would follow. She 
made up her mind that she would write to her mother, 
that she would tell her that she was married, that she 
would confess that in a certain sense she had made a 
mistake ; she would tell her mother that she had come 
to the conclusion that there was only one thing for her 
to do, — to efface herself absolutely so far as her own 
people were concerned. For the sake of her sisters, 
for the sake of her mother’s class prejudices, she 
would be for the future as one who has passed over 
into another world. She would be dead to them. If 
her mother did not know what had become of her, 
that fact, the fact that she was the wife of a provincial 
tradesman, would not in any way worry her or irritate 
her, it would not in any way stand in her sisters’ light. 
She knew enough of the world — not from kjer own ob- 
servation and experience, but by the light of her 
mother’s caustic remarks on the doings of others — to 
know that the fact of her being married to John 
Austin would be a serious drawback to her sisters. 
Well, she had done it unwittingly, but she would make 
the best amends that lay in her power, for she would 
efface herself, she would never trouble them any more 
at all. 

Having fully made up her mind that this was the 
best thing she could do, she had time to spare for re- 
flection upon her future life, and before she went back 
to Clive House she had fully made up her mind that 
her best plan was to accept life in Banwich as she 
found it, — to make herself as much as possible one 
with her husband’s people ; to sink her identity in his. 
No one — not even the humblest, the most simple, the 
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most ignorant among us — likes to feel that his or her 
identity is best merged in that of another. It is not 
reason or human nature, and if any proof were want- 
ing of the complete sense of failure which the events of 
the past few hours had brought home to Marjory, it 
was this entire desire for self-abnegation, which was 
her most genuine sentiment. After all, she reflected, 
if Jack’s three sisters were not the kind of form to 
which she had been used, they were evidently good, 
kind, aifectionate, lovable girls. If his mother dropped 
her h’s and was homely to the last extent, she was un- 
mistakably, and had always been, the tenderest and 
most devoted of mothers. Her greeting, her good- 
night, had been suflicient to tell Marjory this. “If 
you make my boy happy,” she had said, “ there’s 
nothing in the world I won’t be willing and glad to do 
for you.” With her the essentials came first, not the 
mere externals, as with Mrs. Dundas. Mrs. Dundas 
cared nothing for the state of a heart; she thought 
far more of the tone of a voice. She set position above 
happiness and income before love. It was impossible 
that she could ever go back or undo what she had 
done, so, the girl argued, it was better that she should 
try to think as little as was possible of the externals, 
whose value she had proved to be so little, and as 
much as she could of the chance of happiness which 
had come to her. 

She was feeling stronger and better and more resigned 
to the curious turn of events which had taken place 
when, warned by the striking of the clock above her 
head, she rose from the bench and took her way to- 
wards her father-in-law’s house. Annette was the first 
person whom she saw when she reaahed Clive House. 

“You don’t mean to say,” she called out, “that Jack 
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has had the conscience to keep you poking about that 
nasty old shop all these hours ?” 

“ No, I left some little time ago. I’ve been into the 
churchyard sitting in the sunshine.” 

“ Oh, lor I What an extraordinary idea I” exclaimed 
Annette, flippantly. “ Thank goodness, my desire never 
takes me into churchyards. I’ve a good, wholesome, 
hearty horror of anything of the kind. One has to go 
through the churchyard on Sunday, but I should as 
soon think of going to sit in my grave.” 

Marjory said nothing. She felt that her sister-in- 
law would not understand her. 

“ I’ll go up and take my hat off for lunch,” she said, 
gently, very gently, because she had not wished that 
Annette should imagine that she was trying to snub 
her. 

She need have had no fear. Annette responded as 
cheerfully and as unconcernedly as if Marjory were in 
thorough accord with her on every possible subject. 

“ Yes, do, dear,” she said, cheerily, as Marjory began 
to mount the shallow stairs; “pa has come in, and I 
daresay Johnnie won’t be two minutes before he comes 
tearing along on his cycle.” 


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CHAPTER XXL 

EXTERNALS VERSUS ESSENTIALS. 

And thou, O human heart of mine, 

Be still, refrain thyself, and wait.” 

Clough. 

The resolute and business-like John Austin put the 
workmen into the house at once. He was a shrewd 
and sensible young man, and he saw as plainly as pos- 
sible that Marjory would be ten times as happy when 
she was once fairly established in a home of her own. 
In this he sympathised with her thoroughly. From 
his earliest boyhood his sisters had always bored him 
with an unmitigated weariness. They were not his 
style ; he did not admire them. He liked Georgina’s 
thumping on the piano just about as well as he liked 
Annette’s efforts at singing. He thought Maudie’s 
pictures dreadful and her attempts at artistic decora- 
tion hideous. They were not the style of young woman 
that he had ever affected ; in fact, Austin had remark- 
ably good taste in women or he would never have fallen 
so hopelessly a victim to Marjory Dundas. Her slight 
figure, her dainty ways, her soft, well -modulated voice, 
her little, slim hands, her slender feet, her well-bred 
air, all appealed to him, and it must be confessed that 
they were all in strong contrast to the personal at- 
tributes of his own sisters. He wanted to make her 
happy, and, besides this consideration, he wanted to 
have her to himself. That was an impossibility at 
Clive House, for his sisters, recognising something in 
Marjory superior to themselves, followed her about 
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with a persistence which, while it was a compliment, 
was at the same time a great tax. Even her bedroom 
was not sacred. Often and often some such conversa- 
tion as this would take place : 

Knock at the door. 

“ Who’s that ?” from Austin. 

It is I, — Annette.” 

“ What do you want ?” 

“ I want Marjory.” 

“ You can’t have Marjory. Go away.” 

Really, Jack, I think you are extremely rude.” 

“ Yes, I daresay I am. You can’t have Marjory 
now. You can have Marjory when I am at business. 
Go away.” 

Knock at the door. 

» Marjory ?” 

“ What do you want ?” from Austin. 

“ I want Marjory. Open the door, dear ; Jack’s a 
perfect bear.” 

Then Marjory would reply, with a laugh, “Yery 
sorry, Annette, but Jack has locked the door and got 
the key in his pocket.” 

“ Do you mean to say that you can’t get out ?” 

“ Yes, I do, indeed.” 

“Oh, well, all I can say is, poor dear. I’m sorry 
you’re married to such a bear.” 

Yet, if John Austin had not been thus much of a bear 
certain is it that Marjory would not have had even a 
bedroom to call her own ; and, proverbially slow as the 
British workman is, it was surprising how quickly, 
under the eye of the young master, the painters at- 
tached to the establishment known as Austin’s Stores 
contrived to get ahead with the internal decoration of 
the old house. 


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From the very first Jack had set his veto upon any 
question being asked as to the arrangements for fur- 
nishing. 

“You are not to ask Marjory any questions what- 
ever,” he said to Georgina the first day at dinner. 
“When it is finished you will see it, but I don’t want 
to have Marjory worried by a lot of questions and 
hampered by a lot of advice. The home is for her to 
live in, and I wish it to be entirely of her choosing.” 

“ Yery well, Mr. Grumpy-wumpy,” said Annette, with 
a face expressive of mock complacence; “Jack and 
Jill shall climb their hill and fetch their water and 
break their crowns without any advice from anybody. 
I don’t know that I shall even come and see it when 
it’s done.” 

“ Oh, yes, you will,” said Jack, coolly ; “ trust you to 
keep away. Madam Metta.” 

“Well, I don’t know that I shall,” said Annette, 
coolly. “ I consider that I have as good a right to go 
into my own brother’s house as anybody.” 

“ Quite as good a right as anybody else,” said Jack, 
quietly, yet with a significance which made poor Mar- 
jory fiush up painfully. 

“ I am afraid, dearest,” he said, when he had finished 
his cheese and had drained his tankard of beer, “ I am 
afraid that I shall be obliged to leave you this after- 
noon.” 

“We won’t eat her,” said Annette. 

“No, I don’t suppose you will ; but you will probably 
bore her most fearfully.” 

“ Upon my word. Jack, you are a bear I” 

“Jack!” said Marjory, piteously. 

“Well, take care that you don’t,” said he, with a 
warning look at Annette. “ If you’ve nothing better 
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to do, darling,” he continued to Marjory, “you might 
come to meet me a little before six.” 

“ Yes, I will,” she said readily. 

“Meantime,” said Annette, when Jack had gone, 
“you will have to put up with us. Come into the 
drawing-room and let us have a nice, long, cosy 
chat.” 

The three girls drew her into the large drawing-room 
and set her down on the wide couch beside the fire 
which was burning merrily in the steel grate. 

“ No, you needn’t look out for ma,” said Annette, as 
Marjory hesitated to take the seat which Mrs. Austin’s 
little table standing at hand, with her spectacles and 
work-basket, proved her favourite place. “ Ma always 
stays in the big chair in the dining room for half an 
hour after dinner. She’ll come in presently. And now 
that we’ve got you to ourselves, Marjory, we want to 
know all about it.” 

“ All about what ?” said Marjory, faintly. 

“Well, dear, all about Jack, — how you met him — 
how you came to fall in love with him (it’s easy to 
see how he came to fall in love with you, you needn’t 
tell us that) — what your ma said — where you were 
married, — and everything else !” 

Marjory gasped. 

“ Oh, what a lot of questions I Didn’t Jack tell you 
everything ?” 

“Jack! You might as well try to get information 
out of a stone, when he doesn’t want to give it, or 
doesn’t feel inclined to give it. Jack wrote and said 
he had married a Miss Douglas, that she was young 
and pretty, and that you were coming home on a cer- 
tain day, — which was yesterday. That’s all the infor- 
mation we have had out of Jack.” 

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“ Well,” said Marjory, “ I met Jack abroad, at Heidel- 
berg ; we were introduced to each other by a German 
lady, and that’s all.” 

“ That’s all I But you were married ! Where were 
you married ?” 

“We were married in London,” said Marjory, very 
unwillingly. 

“ Oh, you were married in London ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“And what were you married in — what did you 
wear — did you have a grand wedding ? But of course 
you didn’t or we should have been asked for it.” 

“ There was nobody at the wedding,” said Marjory. 
“ Don’t you understand ?” — flushing a beautiful rosy red 
all over her face — “ we didn’t tell anybody.” 

“ Oh, yes. You ran away !” 

“ Yes, I’m afraid we did.” 

“What, wouldn’t your father and mother let you 
have him ?” 

“We didn’t ask them. We thought that they would 
make us wait until I was older, and Jack said he 
couldn’t live without me, and I felt as if I shouldn’t 
like to live without Jack, and ” 

“ And so you ran away ?” 

“ Yes, we ran away.” 

“Oh, I see; that accounts for it all, then. And 
what did your mother say when she heard ?” 

“ I don’t know. I haven’t heard from my mother ; 
I think that probably she’s very angry,” said Marjory, 
with a break in her voice, “and I wish that you 
wouldn’t talk about it. It’s all bad enough as it is, 
but I wish you wouldn’t talk about it any more, 
please.” 

The distress in her voice carried the day, and tall 
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Annette put a strong protecting arm about her and 
laid her blooming cheek against Marjory’s pale one. 

“Poor little thing, what a shame it is! We won’t 
ask you any more questions at all, poor little thing. 
I’d no idea things were like that, though. I wonder 
you weren’t frightened out of your wits to come down 
here.” 

“I was,” said Marjory, “frightened out of my wits.” 

“Poor little thing. I can’t think why Jack didn’t 
tell us. I don’t know, you know, that I altogether ap- 
prove of running away,” Annette went on, speaking in 
a very critical tone ; “ I shouldn’t like to do it myself. 
I always think that the best part of getting married is 
the wedding and having the wedding presents and 
regular gay doings and all that kind of thing. I don’t 
know that I should care about getting married in a 
hole and corner sort of way. I should have to be 
dreadfully gone on a fellow if I did. By the bye, how 
old are you, Marjory ?” 

“ I’m seventeen,” said Marjory, in a small voice. 

“ Seventeen. Oh, well, it is rather young to bo mar- 
ried, isn’t it? I don’t think I should care about being 
married so young as that. Of course Jack’s very 
nice, and a good fellow, and all that kind of thing, but 
I don’t think that you get so much fun after you’re 
married, do you ?” 

“ I don’t know,” said Marjory ; “ I didn’t have much 
fun before, and Jack wanted me.” 

“ Oh, well. Jack wanted you, — that goes without 
saying. But I don’t wonder about your mother, you 
know. I know ma would be dreadfully upset if we 
were to run away like that.” 

Marjory felt her cheeks growing crimson with shame. 
A dreadful conviction came over her that this red- 
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cheeked, bouncing girl, with her terrible want of style, 
her pronounced manners, and her uncultivated mind, 
was in the great essential of young womanhood in- 
finitely her superior. She had thought only of herself 
when she took the plan of her life into her own hands ; 
she had never given her mother a thought. The old lady 
sleeping in the dining room at that moment might be 
uncertain as to aspirates and doubtful in the minor 
points of grammar, yet there was that about her which 
commanded the respect of her children. Over Mar- 
jory’s heart there swept a perfect storm of condemna- 
tion, not for her personal self, but for her class, — the 
class to which she and her mother equally belonged, — 
the class which puts the externals in front of the 
essentials. She jumped up then, because she could bear 
neither her thoughts nor the conversation any longer. 

“ You never asked me last night whether I could do 
anything,” she said, with an etfort to appear gay and 
unconcerned. “ Will it wake your mother if I play 
something ?” 

“ Ko ; oh, no ! Ma doesn’t hear so very grandly,” 
Annette replied; “and besides that, you hear very 
little of what goes on in this room in the dining- 
room.” 

So Marjory sat down to the piano and began to play. 
For her age she was a highly accomplished musician, 
as indeed, considering her advantages, was only what 
she ought to have been. She played three or four 
bits from memory, such things as had never entered 
into the life of these half-taught girls, whose only idea 
of music was noise, whose only idea of pathos was the 
soft pedal. 

“ Why, you little witch,” cried Maudie, when she 
stopped at last and looked at them for an opinion, 
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“how came you to play like that? You play more 
like a professional than an ordinary girl.” 

“ Like a professional ? Oh, no !” Marjory cried, with 
a laugh, which was, indeed, genuine enough. “My 
master used to find enough fault with me. He used 
to tell me I played as if my fingers were a bunch of 
carrots 1” 

“Did he, though? Who was your master?” 

“ Spizani.” 

“ Spizani ! Who is he ?” 

“ Oh, he is a teacher of music in London,” said Mar- 
jory, carelessly. “I was only with him about two 
years. If I had been with him from the beginning, 
he said he would have made something of me. He 
didn’t think very much of mo; he thinks far more of 
my sisters.” 

“ Are they older or younger than you are ?” 

“ Oh, younger, — a good deal younger.” 

“I wonder,” said Georgina, looking down at her 
strong, fleshy hands, “I wonder, then, what he would 
have thought of me I” 


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CHAPTER XXIL 

OPEN CONFESSION IS GOOD FOR THE SOUL. 

“ Ignorance 

. . .. will lead the way he cannot see.” 

Fletcher. 

When a fortnight had gone by Austin told Marjory 
that it was high time that they went up to London to 
choose their furniture. 

“ I have pushed the work well forward,” he said to 
her, “ and if you would come down to-morrow morn- 
ing, I will help you to choose the carpets. I think we 
ought to have them all chosen before we think about 
the furniture, then we can go up to town one day next 
week, and if necessary we can stay the night.” 

The night being chilly there was a fire in their bed- 
room. Austin was sitting in an arm-chair drawn up 
to the hearth, Marjory stood a little way otf, wearing 
the dark silk tea-gown which had been made for her at 
the shop. There was a little stool near to the fire, and 
she sat down upon it and held out one hand to the blaze. 

“ Yes, I shall love to come. You know. Jack, they 
are very nice and kind and good and all that, but it 
will be nice to be in our own house, won’t it ?” 

“Oh, yes; there is nothing like one’s own house,” 
he replied. “ Young married people were never meant 
to live with old married people, nor the old people to 
be bothered with the young ones. And I’ve never 
liked the lot coming in and out here, — all those young 
men of the girls, — they’re not the sort of people that 
you ought to know.” 


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His words served to remind Maijory of something 
which for some days she had almost forgotten. 

“ They’re right enough,” she said, clasping her slen- 
der hands about her knees ; “ they don’t hurt me nor I 
them; but there’s one thing, Jack, that I wanted to 
say to you. It’s about my mother.” 

“About your mother? Yes, I’ve been thinking 
about her too. Wouldn’t it be a good chance for me 
to go and see her and get it over ?” 

“ I don’t know whether she’s in London,” said Mar- 
jory. “Jack,” then she slipped down on to her knees 
at his feet, — “Jack, I’m going to say something that 
may hurt you, but I don’t mean it for that; there’s 
something I must say, and when I’ve said it and got it 
off my mind, I shall be able to settle down and be 
really happy.” 

“ Well, say it, then.” 

“ You’ll not be angry with me ?” 

“ Angry with you, — I ! Why, what nonsense are you 
talking ! As if I could be angry with you, whatever 
you said !” 

“ Oh, but you might, — you may be. You may think 
that I have said it to hurt you. But indeed, indeed, I 
don’t mean that. It’s just here. Jack; I want you to 
give up all idea of ever being on friendly terms with 
my mother.” 

“ But why ? What has she done ?” 

“ It isn’t what she has done. Jack, it’s what I have 
done.” 

“ Well, you took the law into your own hands and 
you married me ; there is no harm in that.” 

“No, dear, no harm. But you know. Jack, all these 
things are as you look at them.” 

“All what things?” 


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“Well, one’s place in the world, one’s position, all 
that, you know.” 

“ Well ?” 

“Now you are going to be angry.” She sat back 
from him, looking at him with startled eyes, and held 
her fingers apprehensively against her mouth. 

“ My dear child, don’t be so foolish,” he said, drawing 
her back to her old position. “ You’ve got something 
to say, and, judging by your hesitancy, it’s something 
not very agreeable. Well, out with it and have done 
with it.” 

“ Well, Jack, I know what my mother’s prejudices 
are. I mean to write to her and satisfy her that I am 
married and all that, but I don’t mean to ask her to 
forgive me, because I know perfectly well that she 
never will.” 

“ Why?” 

“ Well, I know she never will.” 

“ Look here, child,” he said, looking at her search- 
ingly, “ you’re only telling me a little of what you have 
in your mind. You’d much better make a clean breast 
of it and let me hear it all. You hadn’t this idea when 
you left London ; what has put it into your head now ? 
You’re no different now to what you were then, neither 
am I.” 

“ No, Jack, but I didn’t understand quite as well then 
as I do now. You see until I got here I hadn’t any 
idea that Austin’s Stores was a shop. I thought ” 

“ My dear child, what did you think it was ?” 

“ Well, Jack, — I — I didn’t know. I’m not saying this 
to hurt you, but I had heard people talk about being 
in business, and you talked about your business and 
your place and all that. You never mentioned the 
word shop, Jack.” 


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“You thought you were marrying a man in the 
wholesale business.” 

“Wholesale? I don’t think I quite know what 
wholesale means.” 

“ Well, a man who has no shop, who only has a ware- 
house ; who sells to the trade instead of selling to the 
public.” 

“ Yes, I suppose so. Yes, I thought you would have 
a big warehouse and an office. I didn’t think you’d 
have a shop and counters, and that I should have to 
live over it.” 

“ But, my dear child, if you had said that you 'had 
any objection to live over a shop I would have taken a 
house elsewhere.” 

“ No, Jack, I haven’t that kind of objection. Having 
married a shop, I’d just as soon live over it. It’s not 
that I’m thinking of, but what my mother will say. I 
believe she would as soon I had married a sweep. 
She’ll never believe you’re what you are, — she’ll never 
believe anything except what is bad. You don’t know 
what my mother is when — when she wants to be nasty. 
I’d rather die than face her. I’ll write to her ; but you 
won’t write, Jack, — you won’t make me go and see her, 
— you won’t have anything to say to her without me, 
will you ?” 

“ Ho, certainly not. Under the circumstances, it is a 
matter for you to decide.” 

“ You think so ? Oh, that is a blessing ! I will write 
to her. Oh, yes, I promise you that I will write to her. 
You won’t ask to see the letter. Jack, will you?” 

“ No, I’ll ask nothing, look for nothing but what you 
choose to tell me of your own accord and of your own 
free will.” 

For a few minutes there was silence, he lying back 
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in the big chair holding one of her hands and staring 
hard into the fire, she watching his face and nervously 
smoothing her other hand up and down the rich silken 
stuff of which her gown was made. 

“I won’t pretend,” he said, at last, in a curiously 
hard, strained voice, “ that what you’ve said to me is 
not somewhat of a blow to me. I may never have 
used the word ‘shop,’ — I don’t know that one does 
when one is at the head, or almost at the head, of a big 
concern such as ours is ; one never thinks of it as a 
shop, one thinks of it as a business. But I never in- 
tended to deceive you, Marjory, for that I give you my 
word.” 

“ Oh, Jack,” she cried, “ I have never suggested that 
you did. Oh, no ; you have been everything to me that 
is kind and good and forbearing ; you have nothing to 
reproach yourself with. Perhaps I made a mistake, 
— yes, I am afraid I did make a mistake in having been 
so easily persuaded to run away. I can see from little 
things that your sisters have said that in their hearts 
they — they despise me for not having thought of my 
father and mother ; but there is no blame attached to 
you. Jack, none whatever.” 

“I don’t know,” he said, shortly; “I’m ten years 
older than you, I ought to have thought better for you. 
The only thing was that I was so horribly afraid of 
losing you, — and, mind you, I should have lost you ; I 
told you from the beginning I had that conviction 
firmly implanted in my mind, — I certainly should have 
lost you. Having known you, having loved you, life 
would have been a hell upon earth without you ; but 
whether I did what was best for your happiness I am 
not at all sure. I believe, Marjory, that I have been a 
selfish brute to you.” 


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She rose from her lowly position and flung herself 
into his arms and cried, “ No, no. Jack, — I won’t let 
you say it! If I had to live the time over again with 
eyes open, I would do exactly the same thing to- 
morrow, — I would still do it! You don’t seem to 
realise that a little place in the world is nothing to me ; 
it is only that I don’t want to force myself now upon 
my people. I am proud, — ^very proud I know them 
so well, and it is because I know my mother’s cold, 
worldly, hard heart so thoroughly that I am so anxious 
to be beforehand with her and to give my people no 
chance of casting me otf. I have cut myself off from 
them. The result is the same, they will have nothing 
more to do with me ; but there is some consolation in 
feeling that you went out, — not that you were thrust 
out. It may be silly, it may be petty, but it is here,” 
laying her hand upon her breast. “ There, I have told 
you everything that is in my mind.” 

He held her away at arms’ length and looked at her 
fixedly. 

“And you wouldn’t go back? You can look me in 
the face and tell me that you would do the same thing 
over again,— you mean it, — you’re not making the best 
of a bad business, — you’re not saying it just to have 
peace ? I had rather have the worst at once.” 

She looked straight at him for a moment, then a mist 
of tears came before her grey eyes. She wrenched 
herself from his hands and flung herself upon his 
breast. “Jack,” she said, “I love you. I would do it 
over again to-morrow !” 


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CHAPTER XXIIL 

THE LAST OP HER BOATS. 

Trifles make tke sum of human things, 

And half our misery from those trifles springs.” 

H. More. 

This was Marjory’s letter to her mother; 

“My dear Mother, — I feel that you must have 
been expecting me to write to you before this, and I 
can assure you that it was not from indifference that I 
have not done so. 

“I must first apologise to you very humbly for 
having taken my fate into my own hands and arranged 
my life without consulting you and my father. As I 
told you I should be, I am married, and am perfectly 
happy and contented in my new life ; but at the same 
time, in one sense I have made a mistake, and, although 
my husband is all that is good and noble and devotedly 
attached to me, as I to him, I doubt whether you would 
receive him as your son-in-law. In short, I have mar- 
ried a tradesman. 

“ I had at first an idea that you might consent to 
overlook my shortcomings ; but after much anxious 
thought I have come to the conclusion that the best 
thing I can do is to efface myself quietly out of the 
family and be to you all as if I were dead. 

“ I hope that Helen and Winifred went on doing 
well and that you were not too hard upon Fraulein. I 
thoroughly deceived her, as I did all of you. 

“I will make no protestations of sorrow and repent- 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WORLD 


ance. I have not repented, and I am quite content to 
abide by the mistake 1 have made. It was entirely 
my own fault ; therefore I will not go through the 
pretence of asking forgiveness for what I have done or 
give you the pain of refusing to receive me. 

“ I remain your daughter, 

“ Makjory.’^ 

I do not for a moment wish to imply that this was a 
judicious letter or a proper letter for Marjory to have 
written to her mother under the circumstances. I 
think that if Austin himself had seen it he would have 
been horrified. I am sure that he would have used 
every art of persuasion that he possessed to prevent 
its being sent to Mrs. Dun das. But he had promised 
that he would not ask to see Marjory’s letter home. 
He had promised, and he was a man of honour, a man 
of his word. So Marjory, with that curious definite- 
ness of character which she had inherited from her 
mother, never hesitated in the matter. 

At this time her mind was in a curious state of 
chaos. On the one hand she was quite persuaded 
that it was a reasonable thing to presuppose that her 
mother would make no effort to trace her. She felt 
in a sense that Mrs. Dundas had a perfect right to 
cast her off for having gone so utterly and entirely 
against the whole of her class prejudices ; on the other 
hand, she felt that, having taken such a step, she had 
a perfect right to cut herself off from her own people 
if she so wished, or rather if she felt that it was the 
best for all concerned that she should do so. And 
then, too, there lurked in her mind a curious sense of 
hostility and bitterness towards the mother who had 
borne her, — a feeling that in strict equity she was not 
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to be blamed for having made the initial mistake of 
marrying, as it were, without a reference, but rather 
that her mother was to blame for having so brought 
her up as not to be able to distinguish definitely be- 
tween one class and another, for having so filled her 
mind with terror of a possible marriage, by her warmly 
expressed approval of such a marriage as that of Lord 
Sievers to Mary Fanshawe, that her natural judgment 
had been rendered helpless. Her thoughts ran some- 
thing like this: -‘Well, I have done the irrevocable 
deed. I have taken the law into my own hands. I 
must abide by it. I may have jumped out of the fry- 
ng-pan into the fire, but at the same time I do not 
wish that I could find myself back in the frying-pan. 

' The fire has burned me, but I prefer to bo burned in 
!ione sharp social scorch to being slowly done to death 
by the process of an uncongenial and distasteful mar- 
riage made for me, not in any way to suit myself, but 
entirely at the pleasure of my mother’s sense of worldly 
advantage.” 

It is not unlikely that if she had once thought it 
was quite a possible and even a highly probable thing 
^ that a girl of good family, a girl with money and 
beauty, would have married a young and handsome 
man in her own sphere of fife, it might have been dif- 
ferent ; but this idea never occurred to Marjory at all. 
Jshe had become so impressed with the feeling that, 
(if some rich old nobleman wished to marry her, she 
would have to submit to her fate, that the possibility 
of her attracting and being attracted by his son — or 
(One young enough to be his son or his grandson — never 
presented itself to her. It was perhaps a merciful 
thing for her that in her mind there had been only two 
possible marriages open to her : these were represented 
1G3 


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on the one hand by Lord Ulverly and on the other by 
Jack Austin. 

So she, by her own act and deed, cut herself off from 
her own people; and then she set herself to become 
one of the family which she had changed for her own. 
And when she and Austin went up to London to choose 
their furniture she carried the letter to her mother with 
her and posted it there, so that there should be no pos- 
sible clue to her whereabouts by means of the post- i 
mark. j 

Now, Austin had asked no questions as to the letter 
or as to the date of its postage. He did not know j 
that she had carried it to London in her pocket, Oi. ' 
that she posted it in a pillar-box in the Tottenham 
Court Road. In his ignorance of the Dundas character > 
he imagined that her mother might be very angry at 
first to find that she had made a mesalliance^ but that 
she would eventually come round, and that maternal 
feeling would in the end carry the day. So for a few 
days after his conversation with Marjory he not a little ' 
anxiously watched for a letter. No letter came, how- 
ever, and their stay at Clive House came to an end 
without Mrs. Dundas having made a single sign. To 
give the devil his due at all times, it was, as a matter 
of fact, not in Mrs. Dundas’s power to write a letter 
of forgiveness to Marjory, or, indeed, a letter of any 
kind, since Marjory had given no address and she wa^ 
in total ignorance of her whereabouts. 

So Marjory Austin burned the last of her boats be- 
hind her and set her face resolutely towards the future 
which lay immediately before her. Henceforward she 
had done with the past ; she would forget that Mai 
jory Dundas had ever lived ; she would forget that he' 
grandfather had been a nobleman; that her fathei 
164 


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bore a courtesy title ; that her mother was a very 
fashionable woman. She would forget that she had a 
! father and mother; she would forget that she had any 
(kith and kin excepting these newly-acquired relations, 
■ most of whom set her teeth on edge every time that 
.they opened their mouths. She would try and take an 
interest in Annette’s young men, in Maudie’s fellows, 

I and in Georgina’s music; it would bo hard, but it 
would be something to live for. She would try and 
‘ feel that there was nothing unusual in their calling the 
iold gentleman “pa;” she would try and get over a cer- 
Itain habit she had of flinching when the old lady called 
iiim ’Enery ; she would shut her eyes to the wool- 
I work slippers, to the high tea, and to everything else in 
her new life which grated upon her. After all, there 
always lurked in her mind that feeling that not one of 
these three girls, — common, yes, that was the word 
which, in her heart of hearts, best expressed them, 
though she would not have breathed it for the world, 
^ — not one of these common girls would have sinned 
fegainst their mother as she had sinned against hers. 
iThey were hopelessly middle-class people, the like of 
iwhich she had never been brought into contact with in 
all her life before ; and yet, in many respects, theirs 
was the higher life. In externals doubtless she had 
jthe advantage ; in essentials they were immeasurably 
j&bove her. And she had one great stand-by in the 
person of Jack, Jack with his great ambitions, his 
strong, dominant, deflnite character, his handsome 
looks, and his commanding presence, and, above all, his 
istrong, overpowering, passionate devotion to herself. 


166 


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CHAPTER XXIY. 

STILL THE RACK ! ^ 

“ If not a present remedy, at least a patient sufferance.” 

Much Ado about Nothing. 

Upon one point Austin remained absolutely firm. 
He would not allow any member of the family to set 
foot in the new house until it was all completed and , 
ready for residence. ^ 

“ But it’s such an idea,” cried Annette, who was posi- i 
tively aching to have a finger in the pie, “ that your 
own sisters should not have seen your house ! I’m sure 
Marjory doesn’t object.” 

“ No, perhaps Marjory doesn’t object, but I do,” said 
he, stoutly. “It’s Marjory’s home, and it’s to be Mar- 
jory’s taste from top to bottom. I know what the 
Austin character is, and how much chance Marjory will 
have of having a house to her own taste if all of you 
are there giving her advice. You wait till you get a 
house of your own, my dear girl, and when you do, ij 
promise you that neither Marjory nor I will interfere 
in the furnishing of it, except so far as giving you a 
wedding-present goes.” ^ 

“ But Marjory would like me to go,” persisted An- 1 
nette. j 

“Well, that’s as it may be,” said he, having seen in an* 
instant from Marjory’s face that this was a wholly su-, 
perfiuous assertion which had no foundation in fact.^ 
“Marjory can ask you to her house as much as she^ 
likes when she’s once fairly settled in it, but until she 
166 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WORLD 

is, I object to anybody but herself having a finger in 
the pie.” 

“ I suppose you’re going ?” 

“ Well, as a matter of course. I’m going. But I’ve 
got no opinions on house-furnishing ; I’m only the in- 
strument for carrying out Marjory’s wishes. Really, 
Annette,” he added, a little irritably, seeing that his 
sister was about to speak again, “ one would think that, 
being engaged to be married yourself, you would have 
a little more sympathy with other people. Do you 
think you will want everybody buzzing around when 
you and Tom Burgess are busy arranging your affairs 
to your own liking ?” 

“I think you’re horrid,” said Annette. “1 can’t 
think what a nice little thing like Marjory could see in 
you, — a horrid, bearish, brow-beaiing ” 

“There, that’ll do,” said he. “Perhaps our opinions 
of each other match very well. For goodness’ sake, 
don’t let us argue that point.” 

“Jack,” said Marjory, as they walked away from 
Clive House, “I didn’t really mind her coming so very 
much.” 

“ Oh, didn’t you ? Well, then, I did ; so you can com- 
fort yourself with that assurance. 1 know what An- 
nette is ; once get her foot across the door-step and we 
shall never get rid of her again. I’m not going to put 
up with it. 1 know my people much better than you 
do; you keep them at arms’ length.” 

“Jack, really, dear, I do think you’re rather unkind, 
because they’ve been very good to me.” 

“Yes, I daresay they have. Let them be a little 
more good and keep out of the old house until we have 
time to think of inviting them. If my sisters had been 
your dearest friends, it would have been another thing 
167 


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altogether; but they’re not, and I don’t suppose we 
shall see much of Annette after she’s once safely tied 
up to her Tom.” 

“ You don’t like him ?” said Marjory. 

“No, my dear, I can’t say that I do. Kette seems 
very proud of him, but I can’t see where the pride 
comes in myself. It may be a very grand thing to be 
engaged to a chap in a bank not worth twopence-half- 
penny, but I’d rather have a good business myself.” 

“ Perhaps she thinks as you did,” said Marjory, “ that 
she’d rather have somebody without twopence-half- 
penny.” 

“ I never felt like that, — I never thought about money 
one way or the other so far as you were concerned.” 

“ Perhaps Annette didn’t.” 

“ Perhaps not ; but, though I’ve not such tremendous 
opinions of any of my sisters, I think Annette might 
have done better than Tom Burgess. I believe he’s a 
very good sort ; his father’s a clergyman, had a living 
somewhere in Hertfordshire, — one hundred and eighty 
pounds a year and four children to bring up on it. I 
suppose Tom gets two hundred a year now; I don’t 
think he’ll ever have a penny more. Oh, well, perhaps 
it will not be quite so bad as that, — he’s a steady enough 
fellow and he’s got a head-piece on his shoulders, — but 
a managership at four or five hundred a year is the out- 
side of his ambitions.” 

“I wonder,” said Marjory, refiectively, “that you 
don’t take him into your business ; if he has a good 
head, and is steady, and Annette likes him, why don’t 
you take him into your business and make a partner 
of him?” 

J ack turned and looked at her with a face of the ut- 
most horror. 


168 


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“ Kow, look here, little woman,'’ he said, ‘‘ will you 
promise me that you will never give voice to that idea 
again ? I have no doubt Tom Burgess is a very good 
chap, — I have never seen anything about him to sup- 
pose otherwise, — but if once you put that idea into 
Annette’s head, I shall never have any peace until it’s 
an accomplished fact. But Austin’s Stores was not built 
up by such brain-pieces as Tom Burgess’s. I don’t say 
he wouldn’t do very well as a clerk, but he would be no 
good as a principal, and my sister’s husband could only 
enter the business in a different position to the rest of 
the employes. Besides, for anything I know, he might 
think it a come-down in the world !” 

Marjory stayed an hour or two at the house in the 
square and then walked back quietly to Clive House 
by herself. She found her three sisters-in-law gathered 
together in the bright little morning room that had 
been new furnished on their taking possession of Clive 
House, and rejoiced in all the latest fads of the day as 
filtered through the smaller domestic journals. To 
Marjory’s mind it looked like a stall in the Lowther 
Arcade, where she had sometimes been when buying 
Christmas presents, but she would not have said as 
much for the whole world. 

“ Oh, you’re there, are you ?” cried Georgina, as 
Marjory put her head in at the door. “ Well, how goes 
the house ?” 

“ Oh, it goes beautifully, thank you,” Marjory re- 
plied. 

Annette looked up from her needle-work. She was 
getting near to the end of the piece of black satin 
with its cretonne flowers which she had shown to 
Marjory on the first evening of her arrival. “I say, 
Marjory,” she said, in a very casual sort of tone, “ why 
169 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WORLD 

wouldn’t you let me come with you this morn- 
ing?” 

“ Oh, it was not I,” said Marjory ; “ that is entirely 
Jack’s idea.” 

“Do you mean to say that you wouldn’t have any 
objection to our coming to see the house ?” 

“ Not the least in the world, excepting that it would 
vex Jack.” 

“Well, all I can say is,” said Annette, “when I’m 
married I don’t mean to be such a complacent wife as 
that ; my will shall be law in our establishment, and 
I’ve given Tom fair warning of it.” 

“Yes, perhaps that’s so,” said Marjory, “but I — I 
don’t care to be quite like that to Jack. After all, it 
can’t much matter to you whether you see the house 
or not, and if he has that fancy, I don’t see that it 
hurts anyone to let him have it.” 

“ Oh, no, not at all ; but it seems absurd that you 
shouldn’t do as you like in such a question.” 

“ Oh, dear Annette,” said Marjory, with a little sigh, 

“ don’t worry about it ; let Jack have his way in a 
small thing like that.” 

“ I must,” said Annette, with a laugh that was one 
of vexation, “ because Jack is a person that will take 
his own way whether you like it or not. We’ve always 
had to give way to Jack all our lives, and you, poor | 
little thing, will have to do the same.” i 

“ Oh, well, then. I’ll give way,” said Marjory. I 

“ That’s all very well, but it’s not at all a good train- j 
ing for a man, giving him his own way in everything, i 
Pray did your mother give way to your father like 
that?” i 

“Oh, dear, no,” said Marjory, “indeed she didn’t; i 
but very often I wished she would.” j 

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“ Don’t they get on ?” asked Annette. 

“Oh, yes,” said Marjory, “oh, yes, always. Oh, it’s 
not that, but my mother is the one who seems to domi- 
nate everything, and although she always used to ask 
my father when there was anything of importance to 
settle, and she never disputed his opinion, still 1 used to 
wish that he managed things more.” 

“ Oh ! And where do they live, your people ?” 

“ In London,” said Marjory. 

“ Where ?” 

“ Not far from Eaton Square.” 

“ What’s the address ?” 

For a moment Marjory’s heart stood still, then she 
looked desperately at her sister-in-law. “ Annette,” she 
said, “ would you mind very much if I didn’t tell you ? 
I — I ran away, you know. Oh, I don’t excuse my- 
self,- — I haven’t any excuse — except — except — well, ex- 
cept Jack.” 

“And I suppose you thought Jack was enough ex- 
cuse for everything.” 

“ Yes, I suppose I did,” said Marjory. “ Well, I have 
quite done with my own people, — don’t you under- 
stand ? I — I don’t want to talk about them. I shall 
not see any of them again.” 

“Do you mean to say that they’ve cast you otf?” 

“ Not exactly that,” said Marjory ; “ but I shall never 
see any of them again. They ” 

“Well? They what?” 

“ Well, they won’t come here, and Oh, please 

don’t ask me any more about them, Annette !” 

“No, don’t worry her,” said Georgina; “ it can make 
no difference to us ; let the poor child alone.” 

“ I’m not doing anything to hurt her,” returned 
Annette, indignantly. “I only asked a very natural 
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question about her father and mother and where they 
lived ; it’s a very natural question to ask. Why, when 
people ask us now who Jack’s wife was, I can’t say 
that I know.” 

“ Oh, yes, you can ; you can say, what of course is 
true, that she was a Miss Douglas.” 

“ Miss Douglas, — who knows who Miss Douglas is ? 
I want to know where they live, what her father is, in 
fact, all about them.” 

For a moment Marjory wondered, desperately, what 
she should say in answer to this. At last she looked up. 

“ Annette,” she said, “ my father doesn’t do anything ; 
he’s — he’s — a person of independent means.” She 
didn’t like to say “my father is a gentleman.” 

But Annette had no such fine feeling, and she sup- 
plied the missing words at once. 

“ Oh, your father’s a gentleman ! Well, my dear, 
what is there to be ashamed of in that ?” 

“I never said that I was ashamed,” ejaculated Mar. 
jory. 

“ No, no ; but when people are so afraid of questions 
being asked, it generally looks as if there was some- 
thing disgraceful to hide. Not that I wish to imply, 
of course, that there was anything disgraceful in your 
circumstances,” — for Georgina and Maudie had both 
uttered a cry of remonstrance, — “ I’m only too glad to 
find that there is nothing of the kind. Then is it that 
they don’t mean to have anything more to do with you 
because you ran away ?” 

“ I — I — I suppose so,” said Marjory. 

“ Dear me, what singularly hard-hearted people I” 

“Perhaps they thought that I was hard-hearted,” 
said Marjory, trying to speak carelessly and to cover 
her agitation with a laugh. 

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‘^Oh, don’t you know what they think?” said 
Annette, who was not much troubled by keenness of 
perception. 

“I haven’t seen any of my people since I was 
married,” said Marjory. 

“ And haven’t they written to you ? But no, you’ve 
never had a letter since you came. Now, I think that’s 
most extraordinary. Have they actually wiped you 
out as if you had never been?” 

“Something like that,” said Marjory, wondering 
when this purgatory would be over. 

“ There now ; well, I never heard such a thing I I 
don’t think fathers and mothers have any right to do 
that sort of thing, even if girls do run away. Perhaps 
they didn’t think Jack good enough for you?” 

“ Oh, dear Annette, I don’t know what they thought. 
I — I married Jack, — and that’s all ; there’s no more to 
be said. Don’t make me responsible for my family’s 
opinions ; I’ve not gone by what they think. Please 
don’t talk to me about them any more.” 

She got up from her chair and went quickly away, 
and as the door closed softly behind her, the three sis- 
ters stared with blank astonishment into one another’s 
faces. 

“ I don’t think,” said Georgina, “ that you ought to 
have put her on the r^ck like that ; after all, it’s really 
no business of ours to know more than she chooses to 
tell us. I think Jack will be awfully angry if she tells 
him how you have cross-questioned her. I should if I 
were he.” 

“ Yes, but I think it’s so queer the whole thing, — her 
never having had a single letter since she came here. 
Do you think that there’s something else that we don’t 
know, — something not quite ?” 

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“I don’t know,” said Georgina, vexedly. ‘‘I dare 
say people will think so sooner or later ; but, after all, 
she’s our brother’s wife, and she’s a dear little thing, 
and it’s not for us to try and pick holes in her. Be- 
sides that. Jack would be perfectly furious if he thought 
that any of us had even suggested such a thing.” 

“ Then Jack can be furious,” said Miss Annette, with 
an air of the most absolute indifference. “ I want to 
know who Marjory was, where she came from, how he 
met her, and everything about her. And, between you 
and me, girls, that’s what everybody else in Banwich 
is just aching to know.” 


CHAPTER XXV. 

AN HONOURABLE RETREAT. 

“ Come what come may, 

Time and the hour runs through the roughest day.” 

Macbeth, 

When Austin came home that day the first course 
of the dinner was just being carried into the dining- 
room. He had therefore no opportunity of seeing 
Marjory excepting in the presence of his affectionate 
family. But anything that escaped Austin’s notice, so 
far as Marjory was concerned, was of that order which 
is not worth having ; and when the meal was at an 
end, he asked her to come upstairs with him with the 
excuse that he wanted her to find something for him. 
As soon as the door of their bedroom had closed behind 
him he took hold of her and looked searchingly down 
into her face. 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WORLD 


“Marjory,” he said, “you’ve been crying.” 

“ Oh, well, never mind. Jack,” she replied, evasively. 

“ But I do mind. I object very strongly to coming 
home and finding my wife with her eyes bunged up 
and her face like a sheet of white paper. What has 
happened ?” 

“ Nothing much. Jack.” 

“ Well, then, it will be the easier for you to tell me 
what it was. Come, I insist upon knowing.” 

“ Oh, it was really nothing. Jack ; it was only that 
Annette was a little upset because you wouldn’t let 
her go to the house, and ” 

“And she visited it upon you, I suppose.” 

“ Oh, no ; not at all. She put the entire blame upon 
your shoulders. Oh, no, it was not that ; but she 
began asking questions again about my people and 
where they lived and all that, and ” 

Austin uttered a very vigorous expletive under his 
breath and drew his wife onto the couch beside the 
hearth. 

“ But that didn’t make you cry your dear eyes out. 
Don’t tell me that,” he said, insistently. “ Come, what 
was it ? If you don’t tell me I shall go down and ask 
Annette and the girls.” 

“ Oh, it was really very stupid of me, Jack, to mind,” 
she said, in a tone of great penitence ; “ but Annette 
seemed to think that everybody would think there was 
something disgraceful behind the fact that I didn’t 
write my father’s address on the front door for every- 
body to know. Jack,” she went on, imploringly, “ is it 
necessary that everybody in Banwich should know 
exactly the circumstances of our marriage and who 
my father and mother are ? Is it really ?” 

“No, certainly not. It is quite sufiicient for Ban- 
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wich or any other part of the world that you are what 
you are; it is quite sufficient for Ban wich and all the 
rest of the world that I am absolutely satisfied as to 
your family. I believe it is English law that with 
regard to a woman’s character no evidence can over- 
power that of her own husband.” 

Marjory looked at him with a new fear in her eyes. 
“Jack,” she said, “you don’t think that your people 
or people in Banwich will think that there was any- 
thing against me ? Why, that’s absurd. Oh, Annette 
never meant that; she meant my people, — as if they 
had been something very low, something very common, 
or as if there had been something against my father, 
but not against me ! Oh, I don’t think such an idea I 
occurred to her.” j 

“Just as well,” said Jack, grimly. “Let’s hope that 
it won’t occur to her ; because if it ever does, she’s just 
the kind of blab to go round putting it into the heads i 
of everybody she knows. I have no sort of opinion of j 
Annette. I{ow, see here, dearest, we won’t wait for ! 
the house to get finished. The dining-room and the j 
bedrooms are all done and ready and the two servants 
are both willing and eager to come at any moment. 
We will go in to-morrow.” i 

“ You won’t make a fuss ; you won’t say that it’s 
because of Annette ?” I 

“ Oh, dear, no I I’ve got no wish to make ill-feeling, 
but I can’t have you tortured in this way. Being here | 
you’re at their mercy ; there isn’t a place you can call ! 
your own except your bedroom, and barely that. In ’ 

your own house nobody can put any questions of this | 

kind to you. We will make the excuse that the draw- 
ing-room cannot be finished without somebody on the 
spot, and that the finishing touches will be better j 
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managed with you in the house than while you are 
living here. We will go to-morrow. I’ll arrange it 
with my mother, and I’ll see if I can’t nip this new 
idea of Annette’s in the bud as soon as possible.” 

Accordingly Jack went downstairs and sought out 
his father and mother, who were still at the table en- 
gaged in the pleasurable occupation of eating walnuts. 

“ ’Ave a glass of port wine, my boy,” said his father, 
pointing hospitably to the decanter. 

“No, thank you, dad, not at this time of day. I’ve 
got a lot to do this afternoon and I must keep my head 
clear.” 

“ Oh, dear, dear, dear, you young fellows ; your heads 
give you more trouble than mine did in my young 
days. When I was your age. Jack, I hadn’t a father 
to otfer me a good sound glass of port wine ; but if I 
had had I’d have taken it like a shot.” 

“Then, my dear old dad,” said Jack, putting an 
affectionate hand on his shoulder, “ you wouldn’t have 
been at the head of Austin’s Stores now.” 

“ Perhaps not, perhaps not, and perhaps I should. I 
believe in a good sound glass of port wine myself, I 
must say. Where’s the little lady? I’m sure she 
looks very pale this morning; a thimbleful would do 
her all the good in the world. I don’t believe you feed 
that little wife of yours enough. Jack.” 

“Oh, yes, I do,” replied Jack, smiling; “though I 
don’t know whether you’re not right about the port, 
dad. I wanted to say something to you two about 
Marjory. I think we will get into our own house to- 
morrow.” 

. “ Oh !” cried his mother. “ Oh, Johnnie, I never 
thought you’d spring it upon me like that, in this 
sudden way !” 

12 


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“Well, mother dear, you know what settling up a 
house is, and things will go better in the Square when 
we are there to look after them. As it is, they keep 
coming to me all day long about something, and it 
wastes my time so that I feel ready to wish I had 
never started a house at all.” 

“Well, it must be as you like,” said Mrs. Austin, 
kindly. “I must say I believe in young wives having 
a house of their own ; it’s better for them and it’ll be 
more comfortable for you too, dear boy. And I dare- 
say Marjory is anxious to get settled; she must be 
looking forward to the time when she has some of her 
own relations to stay with her.” 

Austin had dropped into the chair beside his mother, 
and he settled his arms upon the edge of the table and 
squared his shoulders in a manner peculiarly his own 
before he looked up at her. 

“ As to that,” he said, slowly, “ there aren’t going to 
be any relations staying with us.” 

“ Really ? But she has relations ?” 

“ Yes, she has a father and mother and two sisters. 
It is best you should know the truth at the beginning. 
I ran away with Marjory. I met her in Heidelberg, 
where she and her two young sisters were staying in 
charge of a governess; the father and mother had 
gone^ farther on, somewhere beyond Vienna. I fell 
in love with her, and I persuaded her to run away 
with me. I had no right to do it ; she wanted to con- 
sult her father and mother ; she wanted to wait, and 
I wouldn’t let her, I was so horribly afraid of losing 
her, I was so afraid they wouldn’t think me good 
enough ” 

“ Not good enough !” echoed Mrs. Austin. 

“Hot good enough,” he repeated. “And so I set 
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myself to work upon her so that she finally consented 
to run away and be married in London. We left 
Heidelberg on the Sunday night, reaching London 
early Tuesday morning, and we were married at St. 
Margaret’s-in-the-East that same day. I sent you our 
marriage lines. And now you know everything that 
there is to know. You’re quite welcome to tell any- 
body in Banwich who wants to know what is really no 
business of theirs ; still, I suppose as long as we are in 
the world our affairs are some come concern of our 
neighbours.” 

Old Mr. Austin took a letter-ease out of his breast- 
pocket and produced the slip of paper to which Jack 
referred. Once more he read it over carefully. 

“‘John, son of Henry Austin, merchant; Marjory, 
daughter of George Douglas, gentleman !’ H’m,” he 

said. “ Well, I must say I should like to have a square 
talk with Mr. George Douglas. Perhaps 1 could make 
him see things in a different light.” 

“ My dear father,” said Jack, rather impatiently, “I 
know you have the best intentions, but the kindest 
thing you can do for Marjory and for me is to sit tight 
and worry about nothing more perplexing than Aus- 
tin’s Stores. As a matter of fact, Marjory has written 
home and they haven’t answered the letter. She told 
me in the beginning that it would be so. I didn’t quite 
believe her, but, you see, she knew her father and 
mother better than I did, — that is to say, she knows 
them well and I don’t know them at all.” 

“ Do you think the child is fretting ?” asked Mrs. 
Austin, all her womanly sympathy coming uppermost. 

“ In a sense I believe she is ; in another way I be- 
lieve she will be much happier here than in the position 
which was hers by birth. At all events, we have done 
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the deed. We are man and wife, and it cannot be 
undone now. We do not wish to undo it. But I do 
not wish to have Marjory teased about her father and 
mother.” 

“ But who has teased her ?” 

“ Well, my dear mother, the girls are always worry- 
ing her to know where they live, and who they are, 
and what they’re like, and why they haven’t forgiven 
her. She’s very young and she doesn’t know how to 
deal with questions of that kind. Couldn’t you do 
something to stop it ?” 

“ I’m sure the girls are very fond of her,” said Mrs. 
Austin. ' 

“ Oh, yes, naturally they are ; who could help it ? 
But can’t you get them to leave her alone ?” 

“It’s natural that the girls should want to know, 
Johnnie,” said the old lady. 

“ Yes, mother, yes ; but the girls wanting to know 
won’t alter Mrs. Douglas’s nature and make her act 
differently.” 

“6f . course, it was very ’ard upon her to have ’er 
daughter run away like that without any real reason,” 
Mrs. Austin persisted. 

Jack fairly groaned. He felt that his well-meant 
efforts to save Marjory from further cross-examination 
had resulted in entire failure. 

“ But didn’t I tell you, mother,” he said. Impatiently, 
“ that it was my fault ? Marjory was most unwilling to 
do what I wished, — most unwilling. It was entirely I 
who over-persuaded her, and I am afraid that if she is 
worried much more on the subject she may be turning 
round into feeling that she was wrong in listening to 
me.” 

“So she was, poor child,” said Mrs. Austin. In a 
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gentle way Mrs. Austin was an old lady who never 
gave up her own opinion because it happened to be 
unpalatable to other people. “ I don’t wonder, Johnnie, 
that she couldn’t say ‘ no,’ for when you set yourself to 
get anything you want you generally succeed ] but, at 
the same time, right’s right and wrong’s wrong, and if 
you were to talk to me for a hundred years you would 
never make me think that it was really right of you to 
persuade any young girl to run away from home like 
that. I don’t say it from any unkindness, my dear 
boy, but that’s what I think.” 

“Well, mother, that’s what I think too,” said he; 
“but cannot you understand that I don’t want Marjory 
to think so ?” 


CHAPTER XXYI. 

HOME, SWEET HOME ! 

So let. us welcome peaceful evening in.’’ — C owper. 

Before Marjory and Jack finally departed from Clive 
House to take up their abode in what was ordinarily 
called “ The Square,” Mrs. Austin had a few private 
words with her daughter-in-law. 

“Now, my dear,” she said, “speaking very kindly 
and gently, “I want to say something to you while 
we are by ourselves. You know, my dear, I don’t ’old 
with ma-in-laws being always on the rampage to try 
and make things unpleasant for their sons and their 
wives, and I shouldn’t dream of ever coming and inter- 
fering with you and Johnnie, not in any way whatever ; 
but, at the same time, my dear, you’re very young, and 
there may be a good many things that you don’t quite 
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know about, and if at any time you want any help or 
any advice that you think I can give you, you’ve only 
got to come to Clive House, and you’re welcome to the 
best of everything I can give you. How, you quite 
understand ? I shall come and see you, my dear, when 
you ask me, and perhaps I shall make a call now and 
again ; but as for being in and out like a dog in a fair, 
that is a thing I shall never do, and, if I were you, 
I shouldn’t encourage anybody else to do the same, 
neither. I don’t mean it in any unkind spirit, my 
dear, but you have three sisters-in-law. They’re nice 
girls, and they’re good girls, — they’re my own, and 1 
know ’em well, — ^but if I were you, dear, I’d just keep a 
little to myself ; don’t you let ’em run wild all over your 
’ouse and make their own of it, and all that sort of 
thing. Of course, you’re younger than they are, all 
of them, and you may find it hard to ’old your own, 
but you’ve always Jack to back you up, you know.” 

“ Oh, yes, Mrs. Austin, I know, I know ; Jack is very 
good, but I should not like to make things uncomfort- 
able for Jack’s people.” 

“ There’s not the smallest occasion in the world for 
anything of the kind,” said the old lady; “not the 
smallest occasion. Making things comfortable for them 
and making things uncomfortable for you isn’t one and 
the same thing at all. I give you the advice for what 
it’s worth. You see. I’ve been a young married woman 
myself, and I know what it is. When my girls are mar- 
ried — and I suppose they will be — they’ll understand 
better than they do now.” 

“ But you’ll come whenever you want to come, Mrs. 
Austin?” cried Marjory. 

“ Well, my dear, I hope that we shall never get across 
one another, you and me, I should be very sorry if 
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we did ; but I do believe, and I always have believed, 
in young people having their houses to themselves. 
NTow, of course, it’ll be very different here. Any time 
you and Johnnie want to come home, why, here you’ll 
always find me. That’s different altogether. As to the 
servants, my dear, you see that the husseys mind you ; 
they’ll as sure take advantage, or try to, of your being 
young as you and me is standing here this minute. 
N’ow, if you’ll take an old woman’s advice, — without 
any wish to interfere, my dear, — be missis; be missis 
from the very first, and don’t always say, ‘ I’ll ask the 
master.’ I don’t know that servants take advantage of 
anything so thoroughly as that asking the master. It 
looks as if the missis wasn’t missis. There, my dear. 
I’ve said my say, and good luck go with you. You’ve 
given my Johnnie a happy face, and if Johnnie’s mother 
can do anything for Johnnie’s wife, why, it’s done be- 
fore it’s asked for.” 

I think that Marjory was more touched by the old 
lady’s homely words than she had ever been in all her 
life before. She went away from Clive House that day 
with a burning regret at her heart, a kind of feeling 
“ If only my mother had been like this, — if my mother 
with her manner, her capability, her powers of com- 
mand, had been like this homely old lady, so tender of 
the feelings of others, what an irresistible woman she 
would have been ! How impossible it would have been 
to run away from such a mother !” 

As they crossed the threshold of the old house 
Austin stooped down and kissed his wife. 

“A thousand welcomes, darling, to your own home,” 
he said ; “ may you be as happy, as satisfied, as con- 
tented, as I feel at this moment.’’ 

They were indeed very happy that first evening. 

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They had always agreed between themselves that when 
they got into their own home they would dine at seven 
o’clock. This had not been Marjory’s idea, but Austin’s 
own. He had complained to her that he could never 
understand how his father could prefer the heavy mid- 
day meal. 

“ It makes me so sleepy in the afternoon,” he ex- 
plained, “ that I believe I should very soon get into the 
way of taking the forty winks that old people find so 
essential. I believe their sole reason is that they make 
their heavy meal in the middle of the day and thus 
force nature to have rest. I cannot tell you how often 
I have tried to make them see the good sense of hav- 
ing the principal meal when the day’s work is over. 
My mother would have given in to my ideas, although 
she calls it pretentious to dine later than two o’clock, 
but the governor has always held out resolutely against 
it. He began by having his half hour in the afternoon 
and writing his letters in the evening ; he says late 
dinner makes him too sleepy to tackle letters then. I 
prefer to get letters all despatched and done with so as 
to catch the first mail. I suppose it’s too late to alter 
him now ; but we are going to plan our life on our own 
lines ; and so, my dearest, we will have dinner at seven 
o’clock if that pleases you.” 

Accordingly the new cook, with the connivance of 
Jack, had prepared a nice little dinner for two, and 
with all the pretty new table appointments and a 
bright little rosy-cheeked maid in attendance every- 
thing seemed couleur de rose, and one might have im- 
agined that there was not a shop within a mile. As 
there was no drawing-room to which they could retire, 
Austin drew a couple of chairs up to the fire and 
lighted his cigarette. 


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“ Now this,” he said, “ is what I call really jolly.” 
He stretched out a hand to her. “Do you think 
you’ll be happy here ?” he asked. 

She caught his hand and held it in both her own. 

“ Oh, yes. Jack, I think so, — I’m sure I shall be. I 
think perhaps that I shall not succeed very well at 
housekeeping, because I don’t know anything about it, 
but I shall do my best to learn, and,” with a gay laugh, 
“ I shall have nothing to do but to learn such things, 
and I shall be a poor creature if I can’t learn the mys- 
teries ot ordering dinner and seeing that the house is 
kept clean.” 

He drew his hand away from hers and, putting his 
arm round her, drew her chair, and all, close beside him. 

“ Don’t let your mind fret itself about such trifles as 
dinners and house-cleaning,” he said, tenderly. “I 
can’t have you fretting yourself to fiddle-strings just 
that you may screw yourself down to the last half- 
penny, or screw the last ounce of work out of the 
servants. If we are unlucky enough to get a cook 
that can’t cook a dinner, we must change her for one 
who can. If we get a housemaid who can’t clean the 
place without having you running after her with a 
duster and a scolding tongue, that young woman will 
be of no use to us. I didn’t take you out of your own 
sphere to make you a household drudge, and I want 
you to do nothing in my house but such things as you 
would have done at home. You may make mistakes, 
so may I ; everybody is liable to do that ; but don’t 
begin by the great big mistake of trying to be a 
capable house-mistress rather than a perfect wife.” 


185 


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CHAPTER XXYIL 

YOUNG folks’ ways. 

“ There’ll be a comforting fire, 

There’ll be a welcome for somebody; 

One in her neatest attire 
“Will look to the table for somebody.” 

Swain. 

In due time the house in the Square was finished 
and the family were invited to inspect it. As a matter 
of fact, Mr. Austin, senior, had had a private view on 
several occasions, but it was a circumstance which he 
very wisely kept dark, in view of the irritation ex- 
pressed by^ Annette against her brother. When he 
appeared in company with the rest of his family, he 
remarked that he thought the place looked very tasty, 
though scarcely as nice as when he and the missis had 
occupied it. He was pleased to express an entire 
approval of the two large easy-chairs in the dining- 
room, and then he went back to his beloved shop with 
a kindly but vague remark to the effect that “ Young 
people will be young people.” 

Mrs. Austin frankly regarded her old home with 
eyes of wonder. 

“ Dear me, to think that this is the old ’ouse that pa 
and me lived in for so many years !” she remarked, 
with naive candour ; “ why, I should ’ardly ’ave known 
it. Dear me, you’ve worked wonders, my dear; and 
is it all your own taste ?” 

“Absolutely,” said Jack, standing by with his hands 
186 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WOELD 

in his pockets and smiling approval down upon his 
wife. 

“ There, now, — well, I declare ! I never should ’ave 
thought of ’aving plain walls, — it never would 'ave 
struck me to ’ave plain walls. But they look well, 
don’t they, Maudie ?” 

“ I think the taste of the place is simply perfect,” 
said Maudie, who dabbled with oil-paints and really 
had a leaning towards the artistic. 

“And them black doors,” said Mrs. Austin. “I 
never should ’ave believed black doors could look like 
they do.” A curious transposition of the personal pro- 
noun for the demonstrative was one of Mrs. Austin’s 
peculiarities of speech, and when she was at all taken 
out of herself this peculiarity seemed to become more 
marked than on ordinary occasions. 

“ They throw up the room so well,” said Maudie, 
standing with her head on one side and looking very 
critical. “ I must say, Marjory, that you’ve shown 
wonderful taste.” 

“Of course, she’s had plenty of money to spend,” 
put in Annette, who was privately wondering whether 
she could model her own dining-room on that plan. 

“ Oh, Jack hasn’t stinted me,” cried Marjory, turning 
her bright face upon him. “ I’ve had a free hand, and 
of course that made it very easy. But do come and 
see the drawing-room now ; I do hope you’ll like that 
as well.” 

The drawing-room, it must be confessed, fairly took 
Mrs. Austin’s breath away. The old lady gave a gasp 
as she crossed the threshold and stood slowly turning 
round, lost in amazement. The dazzling white of the 
walls, the shimmery yellow of the brocaded curtains, 
the rich gold-brown of the furniture, the strangely 
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blended carpet upon the floor, all combined to make 
one harmonious whole. It was beautiful, it was in per- 
fect taste, but it was not the kind of room which one 
would expect to find in such an establishment. 

“ My dear,” said Mrs. Austin, with what was almost 
a gasp, “ isn’t it rather grand ?” 

It was a very blank face which Marjory turned upon 
her. 

“ Grand, Mrs. Austin ? Oh, I don’t think so.” 

“ What sort of covers are you ’aving ?” 

“Covers? I’m not having any covers,” she stam- 
mered. 

“But, my dear, you’re surely not going to set on 
those chairs every day ?” 

“ I intended to,” said Marjory. 

“And aren’t you going to ’ave chintz or ’olland 
covers ?’ ’ 

“ I didn’t think of it.” 

“Well, of course it’s your own ’ouse and you must 
do as you please, but if it was me I should ’ave brown 
’olland covers or a nice cretonne, and I should only 
take them off for ’igh days and ’olidays. Why, once 
lay a dirty finger on them curtains and they’ll be done 
for.” 

“But I couldn’t put the curtains in covers, Mrs. 
Austin.” 

“.No. Well, my dear, it’s your ’ouse and I don’t 
want to interfere. I don’t say but what it’s pretty 
enough, — oh, yes, it’s pretty enough, but for wear — 
and when you’ve been married as long as I ’ave ” 

“My dear mother,” put in Jack, “ when we’ve been 
married as long as you have let us hope we shall be 
able to afford ourselves a new set of curtains. If I 
remember rightly, we have had two new sets of draw- 
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ing-room curtains within my recollection. As to using 
the chairs and couches every day, we are only going 
to use the room ourselves. We are not going to ask all 
the scavengers in Banwich to come and sit in it.” 

“That’s all very well now you’ve got the ’ouse to 
yourselves,” said Mrs. Austin, significantly; “but one 
of these days, mark my words, you’ll be glad enough 
to see your pretty furniture covered up with cretonne.” 

“Well,” said Jack, good-naturedly, “we will wait 
till that day comes.” 

That first visit of ceremony was not all honey and 
roses. The invaluable cook had hurt her finger rather 
badly, so that Marjory had been obliged to put off the 
evening entertainment — that is to say, a high tea for her 
husband’s family — until such time as the wound should 
be healed, and she had asked her mother-in-law to 
allow them to go to Clive House for their principal 
meals. She therefore gave them a very nice afternoon 
tea, served in the usual fashion in the drawing-room. 
Her sisters-in-law were charmed by the style of the 
whole thing, but poor old Mrs. Austin was extremely 
uncomfortable. 

In the first place, it was loathesome to her to eat 
anything in a glove, and, though Marjory brought her 
her cup of tea with a very pretty air of attention, she 
found her hands full before she had had time to divest 
herself of the obnoxious covering. Then, being an 
old-fashioned person, accustomed to eat off a plate, she 
was very much bothered by a thick wedge of cake 
which would topple off her saucer on to her handsome 
silk lap. The girls, being accustomed to do all the 
calling of the establishment, found afternoon tea no 
trouble to them, but the old lady, it must be confessed, 
was sorely uncomfortable. 

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“ Aye, dear, dear,” she said to her husband later on, 
“ she’s a nice young thing and a pretty young thing, 
and our Johnnie seems altogether wrapped up in her; 
but, oh, dear, what comfortless ways London people do 
have, to be sure! Fancy my sitting kirking on the 
edge of a chair, hard set to get bite or sup between 
my gloves and my teaspoon and my wedge of cake, 
and that pretty young thing looking at me with all her 
eyes, only anxious I shouldn’t find fault. I’m sure I 
don’t know why the poor young thing didn’t give us 
any plates.” 

“It’s not the fashion, mother,” said Annette, who 
saw nothing at all ludicrous in the situation. 

“Well, it mayn’t be the fashion,” said Mrs. Austin, 
sensibly, “ but why you should have a plate when you 
have your tea on a table and you shouldn’t have a 
plate when you have your tea on your lap is beyond 
me.” 

The old gentleman repeated his vague remark as to 
young people being young people. 

“It isn’t a question of young people, pa,” put in 
Annette, rather tartly, “ it’s a question of being the 
fashion or not.” 

“Ah, it’s a wonderful thing is fashion,” said Mrs. 
Austin ; “ but I’m sure I shall never get used to eating 
my cake out of a saucer.” 

“But everybody does the same,” said Annette, 
sharply. “You feel it because you never will make 
calls, and when we have afternoon-tea at home for 
visitors you always have the tray beside you.” 

“ So I do,” said her mother, with an air of convic- 
tion ; “ but in future, my dear, I shall keep a little store 
of plates, and when poor old ladies come to see me 
who aren’t quite up to conjuring their tea down their 
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throats, I shall give them a plate and make them 
happy.” 

“ Really, ma, you are silly,” said Annette, a shade of 
vexation in her voice. 

“ Oh, young folks, young folks,” put in the old gen- 
tleman. “ I suppose if they was all like you and me, 
mother, the world’d stand still. But it’s what I say 
every day of my life, and it’s what I often ’ave to say 
when our Johnnie wants to be going ahead in the busi- 
ness, — young folks, young folks, their ways do clash 
with the ways of old folks.” 

The door of the house in the Square having once 
been opened to the family, the young ladies intimated 
to their friends and acquaintances in Banwich that 
the bride might now be called upon. Marjory was no 
longer, in the strict sense of the word, a bride, but she 
was religiously called so for some months after her 
marriage. 

During the next few weeks Marjory received many 
visitors. They were singularly alike in their de- 
meanour; they all made little jokes about her being a 
bride, — little jokes of the mildest order, — they all asked 
her if she had got good servants ; and they all enquired 
whether Mrs. St. Aubyn had yet called upon her ; and 
when Marjory replied in the negative their faces all 
wore the same expression. 

“ Tell me, Jack,” she said one day, when this ques- 
tion had been asked of her several times in succession, 
who is Mrs. St. Aubyn ?” 

“ The archdeacon’s wife, — our rector, you know.” 

“ Oh ! Is she a very great lady here ?” 

“ Well, quite the leading lady. Our Member is un- 
married, and, although Mrs. Wintermayne has a great 
deal more money than the St. Aubyns, she is not in it 
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in position. Oh, Mrs. St. Aubyn is quite the leading 
lady in Banwich.” 

“ Do you think she will call upon me, Jack?” 

“ Oh, yes, she is sure to do that ; she goes to see my 
mother sometimes.” 

“ If she doesn’t come to see me. Jack, I shall be done 
for socially in Banwich.” 

“ Oh, but she will. Mrs. St. Aubyn is the last person 
in the world to leave a prominent parishioner un- 
noticed. I rather fancy she is away ; I haven’t seen 
her lately.” 

So it proved to be, and almost the last of Marjory’s 
visitors was the wife of the archdeacon, Mrs. St. Aubyn. 


CHAPTEE XXYIII. 

Austin’s ambition. 

“And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” 

Longfellow. 

“ I SHOULD have been to see you before, Mrs. Austin,” 
said Mrs. St. Aubyn, very graciously, when Marjory 
had joined her in the pretty drawing-room, “but I 
heard — you know how the proverbial little bird carries 
things round — that you and Mr. John were very busy 
furnishing, and I think it is extremely unpleasant, par- 
ticularly for young married people, to be rushed upon 
before they have had time to put their houses in order. 
What a charming room you have made this ! Is it your 
own taste ?” 

“Oh, yes,” said Marjory; “Jack had it all done ac- 
cording to my idea.” 


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“It is extremely pretty,— quite the prettiest room I 
have seen in Banwich. This is a charming old house ; 
I always thought so in your mother-in-law’s time. I 
never could uuderstand what your sisters in-law were 
I thinking about to leave it. You like it better than 
! Clive House?” 

“ Oh, much better,” said Marjory ; “ much, much bet- 
ter. I think it is a delightful old house.” 

' “ I am sure,” said the archdeacon’s wife, “ that I hope 

both you and Mr. John will be very happy in it. You 
know we have a very high opinion of your husband ; 
the archdeacon swears by him.” 

I Marjory flushed up all over her sweet face. 

I “ Oh, how good of you to tell me that I” she said, in- 
I genuously. 

“ Perhaps if I did not think that Mr. John was a very 
I much to be congratulated young man, I shouldn’t have 
I told you that,” said Mrs. St. Aubyn, smiling. “Oh, 
thank you ; no sugar.” 

Marjory laughed. “ It is quite a treat to hear some- 
body say that Jack is to be congratulated,” she said, with 
a charming smile. “ A great many people have been 
to see me, and they’ve all made it so very plain that I 
am the lucky one.” 

, “Really? You don’t say so I Oh, Banwich people 
are not very well up to date. It is a terribly conserva- 
tive place. I always say that a stranger who comes 
here has to work out his or her salvation, and of course 
you must expect to be treated a little with the cold 
shoulder.” 

“But why?” said Marjory, wonderingly. 

“Oh, the reason is obvious. There was one good 
match in Banwich, and it is gone ” 

“Oh, you mean Jack? Oh, I never thought of 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WOELD 


that,” said Marjory. “ But Jack would never have 
married anybody in Banwich 1” 

“ But how was Banwich to know that ? I think it 
is always a little so — I think there is always a little 
feeling — when young men marry quite away from 
their own town.” 

After that Mrs. St. Aubyn took another cup of tea 
and another wedge of cake, and then she began to tell 
Marjory of a visit that she had been making. 

“The archdeacon and I have been staying — which 
was the reason that I did not call upon you,” she in- 
terpolated — “ with the bishop of Blankhampton.” 

“ Oh, really !” exclaimed Marjory. She was on the 
point of saying “ he is my cousin,” when she suddenly 
remembered that that was a fact which she must be 
very careful to forget, and broke off short, looking the 
picture of confusion. 

“ He is Dr. Netherby.” 

“ Oh, yes, yes,” said Marjory, in some confusion. 

“He is not married, you know. It seems such a 
pity that that beautiful place should be without a mis- 
tress, and all the time nobody able to understand why 
the bishop did not marry Miss Constable, for he was 
engaged and on the very eve of marriage.” 

“ Did you see Miss Constable ?” asked Marjory. She 
had never seen Cecil Constable herself, and she was 
curious therefore to know what her visitor had thought 
of her. 

“Well, I did and I didn’t. I just met her, but not 
to know that it was she until she had gone, so that I 
did not take very much notice of her. A most curious 
thing happened whilst we were there. There was a 
Mr. and Mrs. Dundas staying in the house, and one 
night Mrs. Dundas had a most curious dream. She 
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dreamed that their house in London was on fire, and 
if you’ll believe me the first thing in the morning 
there was a telegram to say that the house had actu- 
ally been on fire and had been practically burnt out.” 

“ Oh !” cried Marjory, for this was more news to her 
than Mrs. St. Aubyn knew of. 

“ And there are people who tell us there is nothing 
in dreams,” said the archdeacon’s wife. Well, I have 
paid you quite a visitation,” she said, in a different 
tone, as she rose from her chair. “ Goodbye, Mrs. 
Austin, and again let me wish you every happiness in 
your new home.” 

She went away then, leaving Marjory to think over 
the news that she had heard. How curious that some- 
one should come to see her in Banwich who had been 
staying in the same house with her mother at Blank- 
hampton! She was perhaps just a little surprised to 
hear that her mother had been at Blankhampton, be- 
cause she never remembered her going there but once 
before. And how nearly she had let the cat out of the 
bag about the bishop being her cousin ! He was in 
truth her second cousin, — at least her father’s cousin, 
— but theirs was a family which did not finely differ- 
entiate relationships. How nearly she had let out the 
truth I She trembled to think what would have hap- 
pened if she had uttered the fatal words, “ He is my 
cousin.” Why, it would have been all over Banwich 
in next to no time ; and, what was worse, it would 
have been very soon blazoned forth to her own peo- 
ple exactly whom she had married and where she 
was. 

She sat down by the fire again and began to think 
once more. Her mother had not missed her ; her mo- 
ther had not minded ; evidently she had accepted the 
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inevitable and was living her ordinary life, so she need 
have little or no compunction in doing the same. Then 
she fell to thinking about her last visitor. How pleas- 
ant it had been to chat to one of her own class once 
again ; what nice, pleasant, simple, unaffected manners 
Mrs. St. Aubyn had ; how evidently she saw through 
Banwich and Banwich people; how completely she 
seemed to be friendly with her! She little thought, 
poor child, that at that very moment Mrs. St. Aubyn, 
having picked up her archdeacon on the way, was 
walking back to the rectory and saying, “Not only 
extremely pretty, but a perfect lady. Everything 
about her charming, — face, voice, manner, figure, looks, 
everything quite charming; a girl who might have 
married anybody.” 

“ Of course John Austin is a good match,” said the 
archdeacon, sensibly. 

“Yes, in a worldly point of view, — plenty of money, 
I dare say; but think of the father and mother and 
of those three bouncing sisters. I wonder if that girl 
had seen them before she came here.” 

“ I fancy not,” said the archdeacon. “ I rather think 
from what the old man told me that the marriage was 
rather sprung upon them.” 

“Ah, then I should think that they were sprung 
upon her,” said Mrs. St. Aubyn, significantly. “The 
house is most exquisitely got up, and in the most per- 
fect taste. But I did notice one thing, William: there 
was not a single photograph in the drawing-room. 
Charming room, everything absolutely in harmony, 
and she so perfectly in keeping with the room, but not 
a single photograph. I can’t think what she will look 
like against those three sisters-in-law.” 

“ Well, my dear, don’t you get putting ideas into her 
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head and setting her against her proper station,” said, 
the archdeacon, as they turned in at the rectory gate. 
“ It will be no kindness to her if you do.” 

Marjory was still sitting thinking in the firelight 
when John Austin came in from the shop. 

“ Any tea going, little woman ?” he enquired. “ What, 
have you had it already ?” 

“Oh, dear, yes, Jack. Mrs. St. Aubyn came; I had 
to give her tea. Don’t go ; Martha will have it here in 
a moment.” 

She rang the bell as she spoke, and when the maid 
appeared, told her to light the gas and to bring some 
fresh tea ; then she went down upon her knees on the 
hearth-rug the easier to stir up the fire. 

“ Don’t say that you are in too great a hurry to wait, 
Jack,” she said, imploringly. 

“ I’m not usually so eager to get out of your way,” 
was his reply. “ So Mrs. St. Aubyn has been here ; 
well, what do you think of her?” 

“ Ob, I liked her. Oh, she is most nice, so kind I” 

“ Different to all the other lot, eh ?” 

“ Yes, Jack, a little different.” 

He gave a sigh. “Ah, my dear, I’m afraid that 
there may come a day when you will wish for your 
own sort of people back again.” 

“ I shall never wish to exchange anybody for you. 
Jack.” 

“ You think not ? Ah, you think not now ; it is all 
new and fresh to you ; you haven’t had time yet to get 
sickened with the sameness of the aborigines, — and 
they are all horribly the same. I have never yet 
known a Banwich young woman that didn’t giggle nor 
a Banwich matron whose ideas were not bounded by 
her servants.” 


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‘‘They won’t come every day, Jack,” she said, hope- 
fully. 

He looked at her searchingly. “ No,” he said, “ they 
won’t come every day, but with very few exceptions 
they’re all the society you’ll get. I daresay Mrs. St. 
Aubyn will be friendly with you, — certainly always 
kind and nice to you. She is a strong woman, strong 
enough to make her friends how and where she pleases, 
but the others, why,” — taking her by her ‘two slim 
young shoulders and holding her so that he could 
scrutinize her face, — “ why, when you are with them 
you look like a diamond set among bits of glass. I 
have felt once or twice, Marjory, when I have seen you 
trying to be civil to these people, as if I had done you 
an irreparable wrong in taking you away from your 
proper position ; I am not sure that I didn’t ; it weighs 
on my mind, Marjory, nobody knows how much.” 

She was very fond of him, this girl, and she shook 
off the clasp of his hands upon her shoulders and 
nestled close up to him. 

“Don’t say that, Jack,” she said. “ What there is to 
get used to I’ll get used to ; don’t you worry about it. 
It’s quite true, I do see a difference between Mrs. St. 
Aubyn and most of the people who have been here ; 
it’s quite true, I won’t deny it. But, after all, what 
is that? A mere little outside nothing. You forget. 
Jack, I have never been used to society. I wasn’t out 
of the schoolroom when you first met me ; I have never 
been to a real party or a dinner in my life. Of course, 
when my mother had big parties, I used to show for a 
little while, but nobody took any notice of me, and 
Fraulein and I used to be rather miserable than other- 
wise.” 

“ All the same, sweetheart,” he said, sadly, “ your 
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class is stamped upon you. I think it was as much 
that as your face that attracted me so irresistibly to- 
wards you ; yes, I think it was. Thank goodness, how- 
ever, now-a-days there is no hard and-fast barrier be- 
tween class and class. You married me, you put your 
faith in me, and I’ll not fail you. I don’t mean to 
stick here all my life. I’ve never been ashamed of 
Austin’s Stores and never shall be; I think there’s 
nothing so snobbish as kicking down the ladder by 
which you’ve risen, hut all the same I only mean it as 
a stepping-stone to other things. I have my ambition, 
and my ambition is to die the Member for Banwich I” 


CHAPTER XXIZ. 

TO MEET THE BRIDE. 

“ There’s small choice in rotten apples.” 

The Taming of the Shrew. 

Until Christmas was passed Marjory and her hus- 
band lived a very quiet life. Gaiety was not rife in 
Banwich during the early winter months. Marjory 
received and made a good many calls ; she went two 
or three times to the nearest large town with her hus- 
band, when they dined at the principal hotel and went 
to the theatre afterwards, returning home by the last 
train. She also joined Mrs. St. Aubyn’s sewing party, 
and they went to various parochial entertainments, 
when the local talent of Banwich disported itself before 
the public gaze. Of private entertainments she knew 
nothing. 

When, however, Christmas had come and gone, with 
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a terrible midday Christmas dinner at Clive House, 
Mrs. Austin gave a party to meet the bride, as she was 
still lingeringly called. Austin insisted that she should 
have a new dress for the occasion, and he likewise was 
imperative that it should be of white satin. So the 
establishment was bidden to turn out an evening gown 
for Mrs. John, and the gown was a great success. It 
was rich and simple in the extreme, it fitted remark- 
ably well ] it would have held its own in a smart London 
drawing-room, it more than held its own in the draw- 
ing-room at Clive House ; it marked Marjory out for 
what she was, — something wholly different from those 
among whom she found herself. 

It was true that Marjory’s experience of society en- 
tertainments was not large, but her ignorance in that 
respect did not prevent her from perceiving that as yet 
she had learned nothing of that world in which she 
now found herself. She had met a great many Ban- 
wich ladies and but few Banwich men. They simply 
appalled her. 

The drawing-room was devoted to receiving pur- 
poses and to music, and Marjory sat or stood aghast 
while terrible young women warbled confidentially to 
the music with their heads turned well away from the 
audience, while more terrible young men obliged with 
funny songs that to Marjory had no fun in them. 

“You will sing something, Marjory?” said Georgina, 
who was managing the musical part of the entertain- 
ment. 

“I? Oh, no, no,” she answered, all in a hurry. 

“Oh, don’t be shy,” said Georgina, good-naturedly j 
“ you sing quite as well as anyone here.” 

“I couldn’t sing to-night, Georgie,” she declared. 

She moved hurriedly away so as to take herself out 
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of reach of further argument on the subject, and ran 
sheer up against her husband, who was coming in 
search of her. 

“Hulloa, dearest, where are you going in such a 
hurry?” he enquired. 

“ Oh, Jack, take me to get a cup of coifee,” she said, 
breathlessly. 

He turned without a word and took her to the hall, 
where a table was set with coffee and cakes. 

“Don’t you feel wellj” he asked, anxiously, as he 
put the cup into her hands. 

“ Oh, yes, yes,” with a gasp ; “ but they wanted me 
to sing.” 

“Well, why don’t you? You sing better than any- 
body here.” 

“Oh! To those people? No, Jack. Don’t ask me 
to do anything, — not anything.” 

For the moment the coffee-table was neglected, and 
he drew her on to a seat which stood between it and 
the wall. 

“ I wish you wouldn’t leave me,” she said, looking at 
him nervously ; “ I feel so much safer when you are 
about.” 

“Why, my dear child, nobody can hurt you.” 

“Oh, no, nobody can hurt me, but, Jack, they’re go- 
ing to dance presently; should you think that — that 
any of these men will ask me to dance ?” 

“ They’ll all want to dance with you,” said he, “ and 
they will all ask you, probably.” 

“ Oh ! Shall I have to dance with them ? Couldn’t 
I get out of it, — couldn’t you say that you object to 
my dancing with anybody but you ?” 

“ Of course I could, and I will if you like ; I’m not 
by any means keen on your dancing with Dick, Tom, 
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and Harry, I can assure you. However, they won’t 
start dancing till after supper ; come and let us see 
what they’re doing in the other rooms.” 

They penetrated into the large dining-room, which 
had been completely turned out ready for the dance 
which was to follow supper. It was in possession of a 
couple, who jumped apart as if they had been shot 
when Austin and Marjory appeared upon the scene. 
The stairs were occupied three deep by other couples 
in a scarcely less advanced stage of flirtation. The 
girls’ sanctum or morning room was devoted to cards, 
and all the older men and a good many of the elder 
ladies were already hard at work playing whist. 

“ Let’s look into the billiard-room,” said Jack. 

The door of the billiard-room was closed, the supper 
being spread upon the billiard- table. Jack quietly shut 
the door. 

“ Supposing that we stay here and have a little quiet 
time to ourselves,” he suggested. 

Perhaps he noticed that she was nervous almost to 
fear. He drew her to one of the lounges which ran 
along the wall and made her sit down beside him. 

“ I don’t think that parties suit you, sweetheart,” he 
said to her. 

“ Oh, no, Jack ; they’re dreadful.” 

“ My dear,” he said, holding her close to him, ‘‘ I’m 
afraid it is not the parties that are dreadful, it’s the 
people who go to them. I shall have to put a stopper 
on your going into Banwich society if it is going to 
have this effect upon you; we shall have to eschew 
evening parties, though I’m afraid you will always 
have to show when they give one here. You know 
you’ll be expected to give one, too.” 

^‘Oh, no, no, no. Jack, certainly not! I shouldn’t 
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know how. I shouldn’t like it at all, — it would be most 
distasteful to me. Oh, dear Jack, never ask me to do 
anything of that kind. I don’t mind asking your peo- 
ple as often as ever you like, but a party ! No !” 

“ You shall do' nothing you don’t want to do, my 
dearest; don’t alarm yourself I only say it will be 
expected of you.” 

“ Oh, then, it must be expected. I really couldn’t, — 
it’s not in my line. It’s quite different with your sis- 
ters ; they’re young and they like amusements of this 
kind, and they’ve been used to it, but I haven’t been 
used to it.” 

Austin burst out laughing. 

“ Well, as to their being young in comparison to you, 
the less we say about that the better. If you don’t 
want to do anything you shall not do it, but you mustn’t 
talk about my sisters’ youth in comparison with your 
great attainment in the way of age! Remember 
you’ve not come to Banwich to please Banwich, but to 
be happy yourself, or at least make me happy.” 

He strangled a sigh in his throat, for the difference 
between his wife and his acquaintances had come 
painfully home to him that evening. 

They were still safely hidden when Annette came 
and discovered them. 

“ What in the world are you doing here, you two?” 
she asked, in tones of great astonishment. 

“We are enjoying ourselves very much indeed, 
thank you,” replied Austin, with a studied air of 
politeness. 

“Why, it is perfectly absurd coming to’ a party and 
hiding yourselves here like this,” she said, vexedly. 
“ I have been looking for you everywhere. We thought 
you had gone home.” 


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“ We’re very happy, thanks ; don’t trouble about 
us.” 

“ I’m not troubling about you, of course not, but it’s 
nearly supper- time, and you’ve got to take Mrg. Fox 
in to supper.” 

“ I’m very sorry, but I’m engaged to take Marjory 
in to supper,” said Austin, deliberately. 

“ Ob, that’s nonsense ! I’ve told Mrs. Fox that you 
will take her, and you must. She’ll think it a fearful 
slight if you practically refuse her because you want 
to take your wife. I never heard of such a thing. I 
daresay Marjory would rather go in to supper with you 
than anybody else, but really, Marjory, you must give 
way this time.” 

“ Oh, yes, anything you like, Annette,” said Marjory, 
who above all things dreaded anything approaching a 
discussion with Annette. 

“Dr. Simpson is going to take you in, Marjory; I 
have told him. I’ll introduce you to him presently.” 

A kind of spasm shot through Marjory’s heart, a 
curious feeling of resentment rising in her mind that 
she was to be introduced to any man instead of the 
man being introduced to her, yet she choked the 
thought down and said nothing. It was of no use try- 
ing to explain a small point of that kind to Annette. 
Annette would only have thought her fine-ladyish, and 
full of whims and caprices, to feel so small a distinction. 
Yet to Marjory it was not small ; at that moment it 
caused her an irritation out of all proportion to the 
value of a mere point of etiquette. Annette ruthlessly 
swept them' out of their haven into the whirl of life 
once more, and then she brought up to Marjory a 
gentlemanly-looking young man, whom she introduced 
in a way that grated terribly upon the girl’s senses. 

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“ This is my sister-in-law, Dr. Simpson, if you will 
be kind enough to take her in to supper.” 

“I shall be deeply honoured,” said Dr. Simpson, 
bowing profoundly to Marjory. 

“How silly you are!” said Annette, knocking him 
on the arm with her fan. “Now pray don’t waste 
time making pretty speeches, but take Mrs. John in to 
supper at once, or my brother will have your blood for 
neglecting her.” 

“Mrs. John,” said Dr. Simpson, offering his arm, 
“ let us lose no time in avoiding a fate so dreadful.” 

Marjory took his arm without a word and turned 
towards the supper-room. The doctor looked down 
upon her sideways, and instantly realised the wide dis- 
tinction between the daughters and the daughter-in- 
law. The light touch of her hand upon his arm, the 
straight, erect carriage of the proud young head, the 
dignity of her expression, all told him that this girl 
was strangely out of her element. By the time they 
reached the billiard-room his manner had undergone a 
complete change. He was one of -those easy-going 
people who at all times suited his manners absolutely 
to his company. With the three bouncing Miss Aus- 
tins he was as jovial and as much at ease as any of 
the young men in Banwich ; with Marjory he at once 
assumed a different bearing. He talked to her as he 
ministered to her physical wants precisely as he would 
have talked to any lady whom he met for the first 
time in a London drawing-room, and Austin, watching 
her anxiously from the other side of the room, saw 
with relief that she was evidently getting over her 
feeling of dismay and was chatting away brightly and 
happily. 


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CHAPTER XXX. 

A SOCIAL FAILURE. 

‘ ‘ The meanest of his creatures 
Boasts two soul-sides ; one to face the world with.” 

R. B. Browning. 

That party at Clive House struck the first note of 
Marjory’s social failure in her new life. Try as they 
would her sisters-in-law could never induce her to ac- 
cept any of the invitations which came to them that 
winter. 

“ No,” said Marjory, with a firmness which aston- 
ished even her husband, “ I don’t like parties, and I 
won’t go to them.” 

“But it’s so selfish,” said Annette ; “ you’re keeping 
Jack away too.” 

“No, I’m not keeping Jack away; I haven’t any 
objection to his going without me; but I don’t like 
parties, and I won’t go to them. I will come to any 
you give, of course ; but all these people whom I don’t 
know and am not anxious to know, I will not go to 
their parties.” 

“ But you haven’t been to them.” 

“ No, and I will not go. It is a matter about which 
I must please myself I don’t like parties, and I have 
never been used to them.” 

“Oh, well,” said Annette, “if you have moved in a 
class of life where there are no parties there is nothing 
more to be said.” 

“Yes,” said Marjory, letting the sneer pass, “there 
is nothing more to be said. Your father does not go 
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to these entertainments, nor does your mother, so why 
should I ?” 

“ But they are old,” said Annette. 

“ That’s as it may be ; but I don’t want to go, and I 
am certain that Jack wouldn’t force me to do anything 
against my inclinations.” 

“ Certainly not,” said Jack. “ You keep your own 
ground, Marjory ; don’t you be cajoled into doing any- 
thing you don’t like by anybody.” 

“Everybody is feeling awfully offended,” said An- 
nette. 

“ Well, let them be offended,” said Jack. 

“I think it’s horrid of you,” said Annette, “and I 
begin to think — though I’ve stood up for you outside 
— that you’ve married somebody who thinks herself a 
fine lady, and who is too good for the people who have 
been your friends all your life.” 

“ Oh, please don’t !” cried Marjory. “ I’m not well ; 
I’m nervous ; I’m not strong ” 

“ No, she isn’t,” said Jack j “ she’s not strong ; surely, 
that is sufficient excuse.” 

“ Surely, that is no excuse for your slighting all your 
husband’s friends,” said Annette. 

“ But they’re not Jack’s intimate friends,” objected 
Marjory. 

“They were all the friends Jack had until he knew 
you,” replied Annette. 

Marjory looked appealingly at her husband. 

“ My dear,” he said, “ you needn’t let that worry you 
for an instant. I’m as friendly now with everybody 
in Banwich as ever I was in my life. I don’t think 
much of Banwich people, and I never meant to marry 
in Banwich. I have never altered towards them in 
the very smallest degree, and I say again what I have 
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said just now and what I have said a dozen times 
since we were married, — if you don’t care to become 
friendly with the people, don’t allow yourself to be 
drawn into any appearance of intimacy ; there’s not 
the smallest reason or occasion for it.” 

“ But it’s so rude ” began Annette, when her 

brother stopped her with an imperative gesture. 

“ Annette,” he said, “ I have no wish to quarrel with 
you, but I cannot allow either you or anyone else to 
apply such a word as ‘ rude’ to my wife. She is per- 
fectly at liberty to choose her own friends or to have 
an opinion, just as you have, and she shall not be 
worried into knowing all sorts of people whom she 
has no desire to know. Let no more be said upon the 
subject, if you please.” 

There is one advantage about plain speaking, — it 
leaves, as a rule, neither speaker nor hearer in doubt. 
It was useless for Annette to further argue the ques- 
tion, and from that time Marjory remained compara- 
tively in peace. But Banwich, it must be confessed, 
was very angry that she held herself aloof, and Ban- 
wich began to criticise young Mrs. Austin in a way 
which would have aroused John Austin’s ire and fury 
if he had known precisely what was said about her. 

“Who is this little upstart?” asked one Banwich 
matron, very scornfully, of several others when the 
fact of Marjory’s having declined two invitations in 
the same week was under discussion. “ Where did she 
come from ? Who did she belong to ? It’s my opinion 
that there is something very mysterious about young 
John’s marriage.” 

“ Oh, she was a Miss Douglas.” 

“Miss Douglas! Oh, indeed; and who might Miss 
Douglas be when she was at home, I wonder? Who 
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was Mr. Douglas? Was there ever a Mr. Douglas? 
Where did they live ? How is it she’s never had any 
of her own people here, and that she hasn’t a single 
photograph anywhere in her rooms? Coming here 
turning up her nose at us with her fine-lady airs, — 
why, it’s preposterous I Bless me, John Austin isn’t 
all the world and his wife, and I’d very soon tell him 
so. They’ve got a good business now, but my mother 
remembers Austin’s Stores when it was very small 
potatoes.” 

“ But Mr. John is just the same,” put in a pretty 
young married woman who in the old days had had 
more than a tendresse for Jack Austin. 

“ I can’t say that I’ve found any difference in him 
myself,” said the irate lady whose ire Marjory had so 
thoroughly aroused. ‘‘ I was in the other day, getting 
some things, and young John seemed as if he couldn’t 
take trouble enough for me. I suppose he was trying 
to smooth over her airs and graces. What I want to 
know is, who was she ? where did she come from ?” 

“ That nobody knows,” said another dame. “ I tried 
my best to get it out of the girls. They couldn’t tell 
me because they didn’t know. John met her abroad 
and ran away with her, — ^that’s all I could get out of 
them.” 

“ I suppose they’re married ?” 

“ Oh, yes, they’re married right enough ; of course 
they are. Indeed, as Georgie Austin said, the first thing 
they knew about it was when the old man got a letter 
with the announcement and the marriage-lines. Oh, 
they’re married right enough,” said the lady whose 
mother had a memory ; “ the question is, who was she 
before they were married ? I think Banwich ought to 
be told.” 


14 


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“ I’m afraid Banwich will have to do without,” said the 
young married woman whose memory dated back no 
further than the tendresse. “ After all, I don’t see that 
it’s any business of ours, and I’m not going to quarrel 
with Mr. John because his wife chooses to keep herself 
to herself It would be most awkward if one felt one’s 
self debarred from going to the only decent shop in the 
place.” 

“I don’t know so much about that,” said another 
voice. “Oh, no offence to you, Mrs. Yawse; but you 
must know perfectly well that there’s not another 
draper’s shop like Austin’s Stores anywhere in Ban- 
wich, or, in fact, anywhere nearer than London. It 
doesn’t suit me to go to London for everything, — in 
fact, I always feel when I’m in a London shop as if I 
was likely to get cheated out of my eye-teeth ; and so 
I’m not going to quarrel with Mr. John, even if his 
wife is inclined to give herself airs and turn up her 
nose at all of us. After all, we are not different to 
what we were before she came to Banwich.” 

“ Oh, no, we are not different ; but, still, I don’t hold 
with that sort of thing,” said the lady with the mother. 
“ If she doesn’t want me, I certainly shall not inflict 
myself upon her. I shall not call upon Mrs. John 
Austin again.” 

“ Oh, nor I, nor I,” echoed the others. 

The result of this feminine cabal was that visitors in 
the Square almost ceased, and Marjory was practically 
sent to Coventry. It was no trouble to her She was 
in that kind of health when small things weigh with 
the magnitude of mountains, and when comparative 
loneliness is preferable to the irritation of uncongenial 
company. Mrs. St. Aubyn came to see her sometimes, 
and also the wife of the doctor, — that is to say, the 
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wife of the senior of the two doctors, for Dr. Simpson, 
who had taken her in to supper on the night of the 
memorable party, was not the principal medical man in 
Banwich, but his junior partner. Then her sisters-in- 
law came very often, and, though they had sometimes 
found fault with Marjory for her desire for exclusive- 
ness, they took good care to make Banwich understand 
that even if young Mrs. Austin did not make herself 
one with the town, she was very much at peace with her 
husband’s people. 

So Marjory’s place in Banwich became a settled and 
recognised status. She was not the ordinary trades- 
man’s wife, but somebody who was friendly with and 
almost took rank with the wives of the doctor and the 
archdeacon. In John Austin’s eyes this recognition 
had put her into her proper place, and if her sisters-in- 
law somewhat resented the diiference between them- 
selves and her, they yet took every advantage of it in 
their dealings with the rest of the world. 

“ Between you and me,” said Maudie Austin to her 
sister Georgina one day when they were coming away 
from a friendly cup of tea with Mrs. Vawse, “I don’t 
know whether Johnnie wasn’t quite right in letting 
Marjory take her own way in Banwich. After all, one 
can go into the Square now without feeling one is going 
to meet all the old catamarangs in the town talking to- 
gether about their husbands’ little failings and their 
servants’ shortcomings. What better would Marjory 
be for being friendly with Mrs. Yawse ?” 

“Not any better in the world, and rather the other 
way on.” 

“And I’m sure Peggy Yawse is a perfectly horrid 
girl, — loud, vulgar little thing. She thinks she’s going 
to catch Dr. Simpson now. Oh, no ] I think it’s 
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rather a relief that Marjory has kept herself to her- 
self.” 

“ But, all the same,” said Georgina, “ when you come 
to think of it, it is a most remarkable thing that Mar- 
jory sprang out of nothing, — out of the clouds, so to 
speak. She has never once mentioned her own people 
to us, not even her own father and mother. Why, we 
don’t even know whether she has a father and mother. 
I believe ma knows more than she will own to. Of 
course, it’s no business of anybody’s in Banwich, but, 
at the same time, you can’t help people having their 
thoughts and wondering why things are as they are.” 

Maudie took a tighter hold of her sister’s arm. 

“Between you and me, Georgie,” she said, — it was 
her favourite preface to a confidential remark, — “ be- 
tween you and me, I should never be the least surprised 
if we found out something about Marjory. They say, 
you know, murder will out, and I believe that it gen- 
erally does, sooner or later. Of course, ma says that 
Johnnie has told her everything, that she’s satisfied, 
and that the same explanation must do for us, — and I 
suppose it must until we get a better, — but I, for one, 
shall not be the least surprised if we find out one day 
that there is something behind all this exclusiveness of 
Johnnie’s wife.” 


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CHAPTER XXXI. 

THE HEAD OF THE BUSINESS. 

“ Time tries the troth in everything.” 

Tusser. 

Four years had gone by. The position which Mar- 
jory Austin had taken up during the first few months 
of her married life had become crystallised. Jack and 
Marjory still lived in the old house in the Square, al- 
though Jack was the head of the business now and the 
old lady at Clive House wore her white hair covered 
by a widow’s cap. 

“ You’ll not stay in the Square now, Johnnie,” she 
said yearningly to him on the night of his father’s 
funeral. 

“ I don’t see why not,” he replied. 

“ But you’d like to come to Clive ’Ouse now?” 

“I don’t think so,” said Jack, hastily. “I don’t see 
what need there is for you to disturb yourself; you 
like the house, you’re happy and comfortable here.” 

“ I don’t think that your pa intended me to keep 
Clive ’Ouse on,” said the old lady, mournfully. “It’s 
evident from the will that he intended me to go into a 
smaller ’ouse, seeing that ’e left me such furniture as I 
should choose ” 

“ Oh, my dear mother,” said Austin, impatiently, 
“ that will was made years ago when my father was 
not as rich as he was latterly. There’s no real reason 
why you should turn out of your own comfortable home 
on any account. The only difference as far as money 
goes will be that you will have your income paid so 
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many times a year by me instead of an allowance from 
my father.’ ’ 

“ You don’t think that Marjory would like ” 

“ I am quite sure Marjory wouldn’t,” he broke in. 
“ Marjory is quite happy where she is, and if she wants 
a larger house. I’ll take one or build one.” 

The old lady sighed, but it was a sigh of content- 
ment. When one is old it is hard to be torn up by the 
roots and transplanted into surroundings not as con- 
genial as those where one has grown and flourished. 
For a few minutes Mrs. Austin remained silent. 

“ Marjory has always been as good as a daughter to 
me, Johnnie,” she said at last, “ but still rights are 
rights, and I should like to hear it from herself with no 
influence from you whether she really does care about 
Clive ’Ouse or not.” 

“ Well, my dear mother, you shall hear it.” 

He went to the door and called Marjory. An an- 
swering voice came back again, and Marjory, dressed in 
deep mourning, came quickly in from the drawing- 
room, where she had been sitting with the three girls. 

“ Dearest,” said Austin, who was her lover still, al- 
though more than four years had gone by since she 
had cast in her lot with his as Euth with Boaz, “ dear- 
est, the mother has something to say to you.” 

Marjory crossed the room quickly and came beside 
her mother-in-law’s chair. 

“Yes, what is it, dear?” she asked, in her kindest 
tones. 

“ You tell her, Johnnie,” said the old lady, resting 
her head upon her hand. 

“ Well, dear, the mother has got a notion that you 
may have your eye on Clive House ; that you might 
like to have it instead of the house in the Square.” 

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“I? Live in Clive House?” repeated Marjory. 
‘‘ But, dear Mrs. Austin, it is yours.” 

“ Ho, it is not mine,” said Mrs. Austin. “ Poor pa 
didn’t leave it to me, — it goes with the rest of the prop- 
erty, — and I’m to have a third of the business as long 
as I live, — the income of the business, that is, my dear, 
— but the property all goes to Johnnie, and Clive ’Ouse 
with it, and I didn’t know — it seems a natural thing 
for him to live in the house which his father built — 
and I didn’t know whether both your hearts mightn’t 
be set upon it.” 

“ Oh !” exclaimed Marjory, in a tone of deepest re- 
proach. 

‘‘ If so be that you have a fancy for it I’d never stand 
in your light,” said the old lady, struggling with her 
emotion. “ I tore myself out of the Square to please pa 
and the girls, and I can easily find another place.” 

“ Oh I” cried Marjory again, “ oh, how unkind of you 
to say such a thing ! Why should you leave your own 
house that you made for yourselves, that is your home ? 
As if Jack and I would wish anything of the kind I 
Why, you must be dreaming !” 

“ It’s not Jack that she’s thinking of,” Austin put in, 
‘‘but Jack’s wife. There’s a lingering idea in her head 
that you may have a hankering for Clive House ; that 
you would wish to turn her out that you may come 
and live here yourself. I have given mother my opin- 
ion on the subject, my opinion as to what your decision 
would be. How give her yours.” 

But Marjory had no opinion to give. She dropped 
on her knees by the old lady’s chair and drew the 
troubled old head down to her shoulder. 

“ Oh, how could you,” she said, “ how could you ?” 

The words were reproachfulj but they carried com- 
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fort with them. No assurance could have been more 
sweet and more tender. 

‘‘ I didn’t know,” the old lady sobbed after a time. 

Marjory still held her tight. 

“Dear grannie,” she said, “you must have known. 
Is it likely that I, whom you’ve been so good to, would 
wish to turn you out of your own house, — the house 
that you built together with the dear old dad ? Oh, 
how could you, how could you ?” 

“ I seemed all adrift,” exclaimed the old lady, wiping 
away her tears. “ It was such a shock to me to think 
that pa hadn’t left me my own home to live in.” 

“I’m sure he never thought of it,” said Marjory, 
stoutly. “ He was much too kind to give you a mo- 
ment’s pain. Besides, he knew that Jack and I, if we 
had fifty times the power, would never wish to pull 
down the very roof over your head. Oh, grannie, 
how could you think it for a moment? Why, we 
could never look you in the face again if we did such a 
thing.” 

So that weighty question was settled, and the old 
lady sought her bed that night feeling soothed and 
well at ease. 

“Marjory may be a bit cold and stuck up,” said 
Maudie to her sisters that night, when they were hav- 
ing a final chat in Mrs. Burgess’s bedroom, “ but she’s 
got the right stuff in her for all that. I never expected 
that Johnnie would wish to turn ma out of her own 
house, but still there’s a way of doing things, even 
nice things. Just fancy if Johnnie had happened to 
marry that nasty little Peggy Yawse, how miserable 
she’d have made it for all of us now !” 

“But Johnnie wouldn’t have married Peggy Yawse. 
Peggy Yawse was never Johnnie’s style.” 

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“ No, but still he might have done ; she might have 
been his style ; and if she had been she’d have made 
poor ma feel her loss, that she would. I can’t think 
what pa could have been thinking of not to leave Clive 
House to ma, at least for her life.” 

“ Well, I suppose Johnnie has to manage the business, 
and so Johnnie has to have the property. He couldn’t 
have all the bother of paying rent and not knowing 
when he could make alterations or things of that kind. 
That’s what pa’s been thinking of.” 

“ Perhaps ; but it falls very rough on poor ma all the 
same.”. 

Meantime Austin and Marjory had reached their own 
home. The servants had gone to bed, but a dainty tea 
equipage was spread upon the dining-room table and 
the kettle for making Marjory’s favourite beverage was 
singing upon the trivet hanging upon the bars of the 
grate. She always had this arrangement when they 
were spending the evening at Clive House, and Austin, 
who never allowed his wife to lack for personal atten- 
tion, poured a little of the hot water into the teapot 
ere he put the kettle upon the fire. 

Marjory was unmistakably sad. She had never 
seen death before j death had never once before crossed 
her horizon. She sat down wearily upon the broad 
couch which was drawn up beside the hearth, and 
Austin, when he had made the tea, sat down beside her. 

“ How am I to thank you ?” he said to her, putting 
his arm about her and looking tenderly at her. 

“To thank me. Jack, — for what?” 

“For your inexpressible kindness to my poor old 
mother.” 

“ Why, no. Jack,” she said, with a sigh, “ there would 
be no need of thanks between you and me, even if I 
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had done anything that needed thanks. As it is, — if 
you mean about the house, Jack, — that was a mere 
nothing, the barest of bare returns for the kindness 
your mother has always shown me. She has been far 
kinder to me than my own mother ever was.” 

It was the first time for years that she had spoken 
to him of her mother, and a certain note of yearning 
in her voice touched him. 

“Tell me, Marjory,” he said, “tell me true; have 
you ever regretted ?” 

“Kever,” she replied, looking at him steadfastly. 

“ You have never regretted the past ?” 

“Never. I have only felt sometimes ” 

«Well ?” 

“I have felt sometimes. Jack, when 1 have seen how 
motherly your mother is, a wild wish that mine had 
been like her. An absurd wish, for two people more 
widely different one could not imagine.” 

“If your mother had been like mine,” he said, in 
rather a hoarse voice, “you would not be here this 
moment.” 

“Perhaps not, perhaps I should. But I am here. 
Jack, and so you must make the best of me.” 


218 


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CHAPTER XXXIL 

A PIECE OP NEWS. 

“ Often do the spirits 
Of great events stride on before.” 

Coleridge. 

So time went on. Excepting that the old gentleman 
with his churchwarden pipe, his wool-work slippers, 
and his easy-going ways was no longer there, Clive 
House remained precisely as it had done since Marjory’s 
marriage. Once or twice John Austin asked his wife 
whether she would like to leave the Square and launch 
out into a villa on the outskirts of the town, but Mar- 
jory would have none of it. 

“Ho, no, Jack,” she said; “1 don’t think I should 
like any villa as much as this house. It suits me ; it’s 
better for you ; it is healthy and I like it ; the children 
are strong and well, what more would you wish ?” 

So they remained, and Austin worked harder than 
ever. Now that he had a free hand he extended the 
business in every direction, added departments, in- 
creased the premises, opened new branches, and was, 
in fact, quite the most important man of business for 
many a mile around. Some young wives would have 
found Marjory’s life a dull one, but she was never dull. 
She had put the past away from her as completely as 
if it had never been. It was very rarely that she 
gave a thought to her own people, and certainly she 
never felt a regret for the deed she had committed. 
At the same time she was never able to lose conscious- 
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ness of the fact that in Banwich she was regarded as 
an interloper and as a daughter of Heth. She was , 
perfectly aware that everything she did was criticised 
severely and mercilessly, and criticised most times in ' 
an unfavourable light. She had chosen to go her way | 
regardless of local opinion and to be for the most part 
regardless of local friendships. 

From the first Mrs. St. Aubyn, recognising in her 
the unmistakable signs of birth and breeding, had 
made herself her friend. The doctor’s wife had fol- 
lowed in the wake of Mrs. St. Aubyn, and there were 
also one or two people in and around Banwich with 
whom Marjory was on almost intimate terms. Still, it 
was not a gay life for a young girl, and by virtue of 
her years Marjory was but little more than that. 

The great increase in the business had naturally the 
effect of taking Austin more away from his wife ; but 
Marjory, although she felt the want of his companion- 
ship, never complained. Since the two little children 
had come to them she had in a certain sense gained in 
ambition. She was not anxious that her girl should 
marry a Banwich young man or that her boy should 
have no greater advantages than even his father had 
had before him. She was ambitious that Jack should 
make more money, that his highest ambitions should 
be fulfilled. He had pushed Austin’s Stores on till 
it had become a great county trade, his ambition was 
to make its name known throughout the length and 
breadth of the land. Although she never gave expres- 
sion to it, there was always lurking in Marjory’s heart 
the desire that Jack should be in reality the merchant 
prince whom she had married, always a latent wish, as 
it were, to justify herself to her own people and to her 
own class. 


220 


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If Marjory had not become close friends with a 
large circle of acquaintance in Banwich, she had made 
herself extremely popular among the poor. To please 
Mrs. St. Aubyn, she had taken a district of her own, 
and in her works of charity she had not confined her- 
self to that. Banwich was not a poverty-stricken 
town by any means, but it was a town where there 
were a good many poor, and even into the most 
thriving communities misfortunes will come ; there are 
always the chances of accidents, and the majority of 
the poor make very little provision against illness. To 
all those genuinely in misfortune Marjory was both 
good and tender, and many a poor family had cause to 
bless the young mistress of the great business in the 
old Square. As was to be expected, there were con- 
tinual demands upon Marjory’s time and purse. One 
day it was a stall at a bazaar, another it wa^ a table 
at a parochial tea-party, the cottage flower show, the 
Sunday-school treats, the various entertainments got 
up by the archdeacon for church purposes and for the 
harmlessly pleasant amusement of the people. Each 
and all of these she was quite open to help both by 
money and by personal endeavour. Then during these 
four years there were one or two political meetings, 
when Marjory received the special civilities of the 
Member, — Sir Robert Willoughby, — and when she was 
accorded a prominent place' on the platform, very much 
to the anger and disgust of other ladies in Banwich, 
who considered that they had a prior claim to such a 
distinction. 

“ The idea of seeing that little minx stuck up there 
in the same line with Sir Robert Willoughby!” said 
Mrs. Yawse to the matron next to her. “ I never 
heard of such a thing, and all of us people of real im- 
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portance in Banwich life down here in the hall any- 
how! Disgusting, I call it, — such push !” 

“ Oh, well, young John is of course full of push. 
He never would have made the business what it is now 
if he hadn’t been.” 

“Push himself into the bankruptcy court next, I 
should think, the way they’re going on!” said Mrs. 
Yawse, angrily. 

But so far from pushing himself into the bankruptcy 
court John Austin went on adding house to house and 
field to field and literally heaping up riches, and Mar- 
jory went serenely on her way, living her own life 
and taking no heed of the dark hints and innuendoes 
which from time to time reached her ears. I do not 
for a moment mean to say that she did not feel them ; 
that would have been impossible; but she was too 
proud a woman ever to show that even to her hus- 
band. 

Of course Austin was more than conscious of his 
wife’s unpopularity in what might be called his own 
set. He happened one day to run across Mrs. Yawse, 
who was seeking a particularly fascinating costume 
for Peggy, whom she considered ought to have been 
the mistress of the great business. 

“Times are so changed now-a-days, Mr. John,” said 
Mrs. Yawse very tartly, in reply to his greeting, “that 
one hardly knows where to find anything. I should 
think you hardly know your way about the shop your- 
self.” 

“ I think I do,” said John Austin, good-naturedly. 
“It is true, Mrs. Yawse, we have made a good many 
changes, but I think the changes are for the better. 
You ladies would not be satisfied if I did not give you 
the best and most fashionable of everything. You 
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don’t mean to say you’d like the httle old cramped 
quarters back again !” 

“I don’t know so much about that. I’m not so fond 
of change and new things.” 

“Then you’d like us to show you all last year’s 
goods, eh? I’m very sorry, but we haven’t any of 
last year’s goods. Now, ten years ago, Mrs. Yawse, 
we could have shown you pieces of stuff that had been 
in our warehouse for twenty years. We could have 
sold you them cheap, but they wouldn’t have suited 
you, because they wouldn’t have been fashionable 
enough. I don’t call that good business. All new 
stock, the best of everything and the most fashionable, 
everything that London and Paris can produce, you 
will find in Austin’s Stores.” 

“ Oh, one likes to have the new fashions, of course,” 
said Mrs. Yawse. “ I didn’t mean that at all.” 

“Oh! Oh, then, you don’t like last year’s goods! 
Well, then, Mrs. Yawse, what can I have the pleasure 
of showing you to-day ?” 

She looked at him as if he were making fun of her; 
but to her surprise Austin was perfectly serious. 

“Well, Mr. John,” she said, in rather a different 
tone, “ I want something very smart for Peggy here.” 

“Ah, something fashionable, eh. Miss Peggy? Well, 
now, if you’ll be advised by me, I think we can show 
you the very thing. Mr. Johnson, you know that 
material we got for making up the dress from Felix, 
the dark blue and red, — ^yes, that’s it. Kow that, Mrs. 
Yawse, is thoroughly good material, soft as silk and 
as warm as a blanket.” 

“It’s rather bold,” said Mrs. Yawse, critically. 

“Not at all. Wait till you have seen the model. 
Mr. Johnson, ask them to wheel that model here.” 

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In a trice the model — a beautiful French gown dis- 
played upon a stand — was wheeled closer to the two 
ladies. 

‘^Mr. Johnson and I thought that the prettiest thing 
we saw in Paris,” said Austin, twisting it round. “It 
cost me twenty pounds. We can copy it exactly for 
six guineas. I suppose you wouldn’t like to buy the 
model for Miss Peggy? I’ll let you have it for half 
price if you would.” 

But although Miss Peggy looked wistfully at her, 
Mrs. Yawse did not see the necessity of spending four 
guineas extra for the sake of giving her daughter the 
advantage of being able to say that her gown came 
from Felix. They decided on the blue and red cos- 
tume, and having been considerably smoothed down 
by Jack’s further attentions, the two ladies left the 
shop. 

“He is nice,” said Mrs. Yawse, as they crossed the 
Square. “ I wonder if he’s happy with that little stuck- 
up thing ?” 

“ Oh, he looks right enough,” said Peggy. 

“ Ah, Peggy,” said the elder lady, “ you ought to have 
been there. You must have played your cards very 
badly.” 

“ I didn’t play my cards at all, mother,” said Peggy, 
rather tartly. “ John Austin never wanted me, — at least 
if he did he never gave any signs of it, — and if I had 
encouraged him too much you would have been the 
first to turn round and tell me you did not do that 
when you were a young girl, but waited for the men to 
come wooing.” 

“Still, you had your chance, Peggy,” said Mrs. Yawse, 
regretfully. “ I must say I should like to have seen you 
the mistress of Austin’s Stores.” 

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“Well, mamma, Austin’s Stores didn’t want me, and 
so it’s no use thinking about that now.” 

“ All the same,” Mrs. Yawse went on, shifting the 
locale of her conversation somewhat, out of deference to 
the tartness of Peggy’s tone, “ it’s always been a mys- 
terjr to me who Mrs. John was. She’s been married, 
let me see, four years now, — yes, four years, and we’ve 
never seen the ghost of a relation of any kind whatever. 
She has never been away without him excepting when 
she has been to the seaside with the children, and all 
this time there has never been a single person, relation 
or otherwise, who has come near her. It is a most 
mysterious state of affairs.” 

“Well, mother, perhaps she hadn’t any relations.” 

“ Perhaps not ; but she must have had people who 
brought her up ; she must have been brought up by 
somebody ; she couldn’t have grown, like Topsy,” Mrs. 
Yawse declared. “ And with all her stuck-up ways she’s 
not succeeded in altering John Austin from what he 
was as a nice, pleasant boy. I thought it was very nice 
of him, Peggy, to let us have that dress for four and a 
half guineas when the price was six, and be sure you 
don’t mention it, for he asked me not to breathe it to a 
soul.” 

It happened that evening when Austin went in to 
dinner that he carried with him a copy of the Ban- 
wich Gazette. 

“There’s a piece of news in the paper to-night,” he 
said to his wife. “Sir Robert Willoughby is going to 
be married.” 

“ Really, — and to whom ?” 

“Miss — Miss — Miss — I don’t remember the name; 
here it is.” 

He turned the paper inside out and pointed to the 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WOELD 


paragraph. Majory took the paper from him and read 
with astonished eyes the following paragraph : 

“A marriage has been arranged and will shortly 
take place between Sir Eobert Willoughby, Bart., M.P., 
of Thirkle Hall near Banwich, and Helen, daughter of 
the Hon. George Dundas, of Eaton Souare.” 


CHAPTEE XXXIII. 

TWO LIVES BOUND FAST. 

“ There is no rest for me below.” — Tennyson. 

If the floor had suddenly opened at her feet Marjory 
Austin could not have been more dumfounded than 
she was by the announcement in the paper that the 
member for Banwich was engaged to be married to her 
sister. For a moment she stood there with her eyes 
fixed upon the paper; then Austin’s voice broke in 
upon her thoughts. 

“ I always wondered why Sir Eobert did not marry ; 
he must be forty if he’s a day.” 

“ Quite that,” said Marjory, finding her voice at last. 

“Of course, it will make a great difi*erence to the 
place having a mistress at Thirkle. For my part, I am 
always glad to hear of marriages ; a bachelor member 
is an uncomfortable thing, and a man in Sir Eobert's 
position ought to have some one to do the honours for 
him.” 

Marjory made some indifferent rejoinder, and Austin 
asked her if she would have some more soup, in a tone 
which told her that he had perceived nothing of the 
tumult of emotion which was raging in her breast. She 
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declined the soup, and her thoughts raced on at double- 
quick speed. 

So Helen was going to be married ; Helen was grown 
up ; Helen was coming to Banwich ; Helen and she 
would meet. Oh, the situation was an impossible one ! 
She wondered what she ought to do; whether she 
ought to apprise them at home; whether she ought 
to say anything. No, it would not do to write; Sir 
Robert was a good match, well born, rich, well placed, 
attractive in himself ; her mother would never, never 
forgive her if she was to cause the breaking off of such 
a marriage for one of her sisters. 

It is hard to say how she got through that evening. 
The great news was, of course, uppermost in her mind, 
but it was not until she was in the safe shelter of her 
bed, with all the household wrapped in sleep, that she 
was able to think over this new turn of events. Helen 
was grown up. She was glad that the dreamy, gentle 
child was going to make so good a marriage; she 
wondered if she was as enthusiastic and as dreamy as 
ever ; she wondered if she had grown up in fulfilment 
of the delicate beauty that her childhood had promised. 
In that hour, that dark midnight hour, her heart 
yearned after her own kith and kin, and yet with the 
yearning came hand in hand instinctive plans for con- 
cealing herself. After all, it was not absolutely neces- 
sary that she and Helen should meet : they would move 
in totally different spheres ; there was no absolute reason 
why they should ever come into contact one with 
another. She would say nothing ; she would not dis- 
close herself ; and, for the rest, when Helen was at 
Thirkle, she would try to keep out of her way. It 
would all be quite simple, nobody need know anything 
about it. Yet how wonderful it all was ! . . . Helen at 
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Thirkle; Helen, Lady Willoughby! She could not 
believe it, and yet it was true, there was no doubt about 
it ; it was true that she was about to marry the member 
for Banwicb, and she, Marjory, the wife of a Banwicb 
tradesman, must make the best of an exceedingly com- 
plicated situation. 

Having arrived at this conclusion, she yet did not 
sleep, but went over the past, over and over again, re- 
calling with tenderness all Helen’s beauties of person 
and enthusiasms of nature. Oh, if only circumstances 
were such that she could go to her as one loving sister 
to another ; if only she could take her by the hand and I 
say with pride to the whole world, “ This is my sister I” j 
But no, between the wife of Sir Robert Willoughby, of | 
Thirkle, and Mrs. Austin, of Banwich, there was a great | 
gulf fixed, — a gulf which could not be bridged over. | 
She had dug a deep trench with her own hands ; it was 
filled full with the waters of separation. There could 
be no sisterly intercourse between the two, at best only 
a stolen meeting now and again, scarcely that ; indeed, 
she had no hope even of such. She could not, would 
not, must not grumble at the turn which events had 
taken ; it would be pain, but she had no one to blame 
for it but herself. The blow was a sudden one ; she 
had not expected it, but it was what she might have 
looked for at any moment, — that she might one day be 
brought into contact with her own people. And for 
the most part concealment would be comparatively 
easy. How upset and nervous she had been when the 
bishop of Blankhampton had come to preach for the 
archdeacon ! That time she had feigned an illness, an 
indisposition, that is to say, rather than run the risk 
of going to church and being recognised from the pul- 
pit. Well, she saw Sir Robert very seldom ; she would 
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take to wearing thick veils, and she would trust to 
chance that she met his wife as seldom when she hap- 
pened to be at Thirkle. 

She had quite made up her mind to this course of 
action when the morning dawned. The long sleepless 
night had left its trace upon her, and Austin noticed 
her pale looks as he sat opposite to her at the break- 
fast-table. 

“ Why, my dearest,” he said, “you look very poorly 
this morning; have you a headache?” 

“ I don’t feel very well,” she replied. 

“ I believe,” he said, “ that you’ve been too long in 
Banwich without a change. Supposing that you run 
over to Paris with me next week ?” 

“Are you going to Paris next week. Jack?” 

“ Oh, yes, I must ; I’ve several things to see to. If I 
don’t go myself. I’m never so well satisfied with the 
result ; I feel sometimes as if I ought to be in half a 
dozen places at once. I wish to goodness I had a real 
good, energetic, go-ahead partner.” 

“ Why don’t you take one ?” 

“ Oh, it would be putting the sway out of my own 
hands. As I am now, there is no one to say ‘no’ to me, 
and when you’re running a big concern that’s a great 
thing. Later on I may turn the concern into a com- 
pany, and then I should be in a different position alto- 
gether.” 

“ But why would you ?” 

“ Because I should have made my pile safe, and as 
managing director I should have just as much power, 
only not so much responsibility.” 

“ I see ; hut you would have just as much work.” 

“Kot quite. However, we shall see what we shall 
see.” ■ 


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He told Marjory two or three days later that part of 
the bride’s trousseau was to be made in Banwich, that 
is to say, at Austin’s Stores. 

“ Mrs. O’Brien is going up to-morrow,” he told her ; 
‘‘ she is almost beside herself with joy, naturally. She 
has orders to take up patterns of silks for evening 
gowns and all sorts of lingerie. I call that very decent 
of Sir Robert,” he went on, “ to remember his town in 
that way.” 

“It’s rather nice of her, too,” said Marjory. 

“ Oh, yes, and very judicious, for the seat is not such 
a safe one that it could not be contested.” 

“ I thought Banwich was so Conservative.” 

“Yes, Banwich is Conservative, but Banwich the last 
year or two has been showing a tendency towards Lib- 
eralism, — Radicalism, if you will, — and there have been 
one or two fellows on the other side stirring things up 
and giving one a certain sense of uneasiness, politically 
speaking. The worst of it is, they are about right. 
The Conservatives have had it their own way for a long 
time and the people have stood still, but the people are 
beginning to say, ‘ Why should we stand still ? Why 
shouldn’t we go ahead and fight for ourselves, as the 
ancestors of the Conservatives did ?’ Now, you know, 
when a working-man asks you that, what are you to 
say ? A working-man said to me the other day, ‘ It’s 
all very well to preach Conservatism, Mr. Austin, but I 
can remember the time when your father began life in 
a very small way of business. It was a great lift for 
him when he came into the Square and married Miss 
Holmes, of Thirkle. Your father didn’t stand still and 
you haven’t stood still, and what’s sauce for one is 
sauce for another. If you can forge ahead and make a 
place for yourself, adding house to house and field to 
230 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WOELD 


field, why shouldn’t I ? I don’t say I’m not contented 
with my proper station in life, or that I want to ape 
my betters, but we all know that most grist comes to 
him who turns the wheel strongest, and if my son has 
it in him to turn the wheel stronger than me, why 
should the grist be kept away from him because I 
happen not to be so strong as he is?’ What could I 
say?” said Austin. 

“ What did you say ?” asked Marjory. 

“Well, as a matter of fact,” said Austin, “I don’t 
think that I said very much. I think that I clapped 
him on the back, and I think I intimated to him that I 
didn’t see any reason.” 

“And there is no reason,” said • Marjory. “There is 
no reason in the world. Jack, why you shouldn’t be the 
Member for Banwich one day. You’d make a much 
better Member than Sir Eobert Willoughby. He is a 
nice man and he is rich, but he is not clever. He can’t 
speak ; there’s nothing in him. That working-man 
was quite right. Jack ; and if anything should happen 
to prevent Sir Eobert from standing again, I don’t see 
that there’s any reason why you shouldn’t stand for 
Banwich.” 

“ We’ll see,” said Austin, “ we’ll see, my dear little 
ambitious wife. At all events, Marjory, if ever I should 
stand for Banwich, I shall be much better off than many 
men would be in my position.” 

“ How so ?” 

“ Because,” he replied, “ I shall have the unspeakable 
advantage of having a wife that any lord in the land 
might be proud of.” 


231 


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CHAPTER XXXIY. 

NEARER AND NEARER. 

“ Love will with the heart remain 
When its hopes are all gone by.’^ 

Clare. 

It must not be imagined that one wakeful night’s 
deep thought fully satisfied Marjory as to her best 
course of action for the future. During the few weeks 
that passed between the announcement of Helen’s en- 
gagement and the day of the marriage her thoughts 
were continually occupied with the one subject. There 
were moments when she felt that the concealment she 
had so confidently arranged was absolutely impossible ; 
times when her mind showed her a dozen different 
chances of meeting which might occur when her sister 
was once established at Thirkle. There were times 
when she felt that in taking her life into her own hands 
she had wronged not only her mother but all her family, 
wronged them irretrievably and irredeemably. At 
such times as these, she felt that there was but one 
course which she could honourably follow, — a com- 
plaining of neuralgia for a little while, a draught to 
compose her nerves, and then — nothing. She almost 
made up her mind to this plan. A feeling had taken 
possession of her that it was the only decent thing that 
she could do, — to efface herself from all the world as 
thoroughly as she had intended to efface herself from 
her own people. Then she heard the baby cry, and 
she knew in that moment that, come what might, she 
could not bring herself to leave the two little things 
upstairs to the tender mercies of a motherless world. 

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No, no ; that was a coward’s way out of the difficulty, 
and she had never yet been a coward. Nof a few times 
she thought of confessing everything to her husband, 
of telling him, and asking his advice as to the best and 
most honourable course that she could pursue. Yet, 
somehow, she shrank from disclosing to him what she 
had kept hidden for so long. Besides, the necessity for 
keeping such information dark was surely greater now 
than it had ever been. So she came to the conclusion 
yet once again that silence was the best course that she 
could follow, and, for a few hours, she was compara- 
tively at peace. 

Then her thoughts began to worry her again. Surely 
it would be best to write to her mother ; her mother 
could suppress the letter if she chose. But from this 
course her mind shrank with an absolute dread of the 
scorn and abuse which Mrs. Dundas would shower upon 
Austin. Sometimes she tried to soothe her fears by 
reminding herself that, after all, she had the same right 
to live, and to live her own life, as Helen had. After 
all, if Helen did know that she was in Banwich, did see 
her, did meet her, no great harm would be done. She 
could keep silence as to the relationship between them 
if she chose. And during all this time she followed 
with eager and jealous eyes the inspiring accounts, 
given with much detail in the local papers, of the 
forthcoming wedding. She might have cut herself olf 
from home and made her own life, but the bride-elect 
was her own sister ; and there are times in the lives of 
most of us when we feel that blood is thicker than 
water, after all. 

The schemes for present-giving set afoot in Banwich 
and its neighbourhood were something astonishing, and 
the local papers gave unctuous note of all. The town 
233 


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gave to its member, tbe village of Thirkle to its squire, 
the estate to its landlord, the Conservative Association 
to its chief, and, not a little to Marjory’s surprise, Aus- 
tin’s Stores gave on its own account. 

“ Why don’t you go in with the town ?” she asked of 
Jack, when she first heard that a separate gift was 
being arranged for. 

“ Oh, no, I don’t see joining in with anybody else,” 
he replied. “ Austin’s Stores is the biggest business 
for fifty miles round, and Austin’s Stores is going to 
do the thing handsomely. Besides, what a splendid 
advertisement I” 

I think that never had the soul of Marjory turned 
so sick within her as when her husband let fiy this 
shaft of commercial acumen. 

“ What a horrid thing to say. Jack !” she said, indig- 
nantly. “ It’s not worthy of you.” 

“ Nonsense, my dear ; nonsense. It only shows that 
we are too big a concern to go in under anybody else’s 
wing. The tradespeople are not giving a present, be- 
cause we are practically the only people in Banwich 
that Sir Robert deals with.” 

“ What are you going to give ?” 

“ Something in silver or jewelry, I suppose.” 

“ No, no ; what are you going to give in money ?” 

“ The business is going to give one hundred pounds, 
and all the employes will give something. I should 
suggest a diamond bracelet for the lady. I hear of 
at least five silver bowls, — they can’t want another, — 
and probably Sir Robert has more salvers than he will 
ever want to use. A lady cannot have too many dia- 
monds.” 

Eventually the presentation committee called on 
Mrs. Austin and begged her to go to London and choose 
234 


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a bracelet for the Member’s bride, and Marjory, with 
a strange feeling of mingled pleasure and pain, con- 
sented to do so. 

A very handsome bracelet can be bought for a hun- 
dred and fifty pounds, which was the sum placed in 
Marjory’s hands when she set out on her mission. It 
was a genuine pleasure to her to choose the costly 
bauble. The great Bond Street firm of jewellers to 
which she went, on hearing for whom the gift was in- 
tended, showed her several other things which were 
intended for Sir Robert and Sir Robert’s bride. There 
was a great tankard from his friends in the House of 
Commons, a silver inkstand from the servants at Eaton 
Square, the ruby and diamond brooches which were 
intended for the bridesmaids, and a magnificent tiara 
of diamonds, which was one of the bridegroom’s gifts 
to his bride. Marjory had never possessed much jew- 
elry herself ; she had always objected to her husband 
spending money on her in that way. 

“It is no use giving me extravagant things,” sh-e 
said to him more than once, “just to keep in a box. I 
have no possible chance of wearing diamonds, so it is 
useless and foolish to buy them for me.” 

On one birthday he had given twenty pounds for a 
little simple brooch such as she could wear at break- 
fast if she so chose, and she had several handsome 
rings, and this was all her store of such things. 

“I should like to buy a ring for my wife,” said 
Austin, when the bride’s presents were all safely stowed 
away again. 

“ Certainly, sir, — a half hoop, a marquise, a cluster, 
single stone ? What is your fancy, madam ?” 

“I have no fancy,” said Marjory, looking at Jack. 
“ I did not come here to buy anything for myself” 

235 


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“No; but I should like to give you a ring. You 
have so few pretty things. For my own part, I should 
like to see you with a marquise. They are the most 
becoming rings in the world, I think.” 

So a great many beautiful rings were brought out, 
and Marjory was made to select one whether she would 
or no. Eventually she chose a great turquoise set 
with diamonds, and Austin paid for it in bank-notes 
on the spot. 

“ Now, you will send this down to Banwich,” he said, 
touching the case containing the bracelet, “ because all 
the donors will like to see what they have given.” 

The words had scarcely left his lips when the door 
opened and Sir Robert Willoughby walked into the 
shop. 

“ Ah, Mrs. Austin, is that you ?” he asked. “ Well, I 
suppose you have not come on my errand.” 

Marjory murmured her congratulations. Sir Robert 
lifted his hat again in token of thanks. 

“ I believe. Sir Robert,” said Austin, “that we have 
come precisely on your errand. My wife came up to 
choose a present for the bride.” 

“ Really ? That is exceedingly kind of you. I’m 
sure you chose something most charming,” said Sir 
Robert, who was blessed with suave and courtly man- 
ners. “ At present we are feeling quite overwhelmed 
by the kindness which has been showered upon us. I 
shall tell Miss Dundas when the present arrives that 
you chose it.. May I know what it is, or is it a 
secret ?” 

“ Oh, no, it is no secret from you,” said Marjory^ 
turning and taking the case from the jeweller. 

“ This is most beautiful,” said Sir Robert, who was 
astonished at the value of the offering. “ I shall be 
236 


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sure to tell Miss Dundas that you chose it. Your taste 
is perfect, Mrs. Austin.” 

“ My wife has perfect taste,” Austin put in ; “ that 
was why she was asked to choose it.” 

They bade him farewell then and left him in pos- 
session of the shop. 

“ Do you want anything in this street ?” Austin 
asked, as they gained the pavement. 

“ No, dear, I don’t want anything to-day.” 

“ Then we had better take a cab.” 

“ Yes, take a cab ; I am too tired to walk.” 

In truth, she was afraid that her mother and sisters 
might be shopping just at that time. So Austin hailed 
a cab, and they were soon driving away along Oxford 
Street. 

“ He’s a good sort of chap,” said Austin, presently, 
speaking of Sir Robert Willoughby, ‘‘but it was a good 
thing for him he was born Sir Robert Willoughby, 
of Thirkle.” 

“Why?” 

“ Oh, because if he had been born a clodhopper he 
would have remained a clodhopper. There is nothing 
in him.” 

“Then why did they choose him for Member?” 

“Well, they didn’t; he chose himself. If a real 
smart chap were to oppose him to-morrow I don’t be- 
lieve he’d keep his seat. That, however, is merely a 
matter of opinion, and until the seat is contested it will 
be hard to say which way the tide will turn. Still, it 
was a lucky thing for him that he was born Sir Robert 
Willoughby, of Thirkle.” 

“ Perhaps she is satisfied with him,” said Marjory, 
softly. 

“ Oh, I have no doubt of it ; but it doesn’t take much 
237 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WOKLD 


brains to make a good husband, and it only takes a title 
and some money to make a good match,” said Austin, 
with a laugh. 

“Well, of course,” rejoined Marjory, “a man has no 
worse chance of being a good husband because he hap- 
pens to have either money or a title.” 

“ Or brains,” added Austin ; “ but they are the least 
essential of the three, — at least it always seems to mo 
that it is so in the eyes of the world.” 

Marjory smothered a sigh. That chance meeting 
with Sir Eobert Willoughby had in a measure accentu- 
ated the difference between the two worlds in which 
she had lived. She was very happy as Austin’s wife, 
she would not have changed her lot for any other in ^ 
the world ; and yet there were times and times out of 
number when she felt a wild sick thrill of yearning to 
find herself among her own again, — not to change her 
husband, no, but to transplant her husband and her 
children into the world from which she had come. 

After this the days passed quickly by and that of the 
wedding came and went. It was no longer of any use 
for Marjory to think and think and to harass her 
brain with questions for and against her line of con- 
duct ; the wedding was an accomplished fact, and 
Helen Dundas was now Sir Eobert Willoughby’s wife. 

The honeymoon was to be spent at Thirkle, and there 
were great preparations made in the village, and indeed 
in Banwich itself, for the reception of the bride and 
groom. Among others Austin went to the station to 
receive them, but Marjory pleaded indisposition — she 
was getting quite an adept at pleading indisposition — 
and did not go. Austin returned home full of the 
charm and grace of the bride’s manner. 

“She is extremely pretty,” he said; “a little cold, 
2ZS 


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almost artificial; but with beautiful gracious manners 
and rather a winning smile.” 

“ Well, then, if she has such beautiful manners and 
a charming smile, how can you call her artificial?” 
asked Marjory, 

“ Well, I can’t say how or why, but that was my 
impression of her.” 

“ She is very young,” said Marjory. 

Yes, quite young, — quite a girl. She asked for you.” 

“ Oh, no, no.” 

“But she did. She was wearing our bracelet, and 
she told me that she valued it extremely, as much as 
anything she had received. She especially asked for 
you ; she wished to thank you for your kindness in 
choosing it.” 

“ It needs no thanks,” said Marjory. 

“Evidently she thought so,” said Austin. “I told 
her that you were not very well, otherwise that you 
' would have been at the station to receive her.” 

“But I shouldn’t have gone. Jack.” 

I “ Wouldn’t you ? Why not ?” 

“ Well, I shouldn’t. I don’t care for pushing myself 
I to the front on every occasion. You are different ; you 
I are one of the principal upholders of Sir Kobert’s 
I party ; it is quite a natural thing that you should go, 

I but it would not have been at all necessary for me, and 
I I should not have gone.” 

' “ Oh, well, I’m sorry I put my foot in it, but there’s 

no great harm done. She seemed to think it a most 
natural thing that you should have been there. She 
was very nice afbout your being seedy.” 

Apparently Lady Willoughby was very nice, for the 
following day a message came down from Thirkle to 
enquire for Mrs. Austin, to enquire had she recovered 
23a 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WORLD 


from her indisposition ? Marjory herself saw the mes- 
senger, evidently Lady Willoughby’s maid, and told 
her that she was very much obliged for her ladyship’s 
kindness ; would she tell her that it had been simply a 
passing headache and that she was perfectly recovered ? 

So a week went by, and there was no sign of Lady 
Willoughby taking any further interest in Mrs. Austin. 
But at the end of that time, when Maijory was sitting 
alone in her drawing-room one afternoon, the door was 
opened and the parlour-maid announced, in a very im- 
portant voice, — “ Lady Willoughby !” 


CHAPTER XXXY. 

FACE TO FACE. 

And now shake hands across the brink 

Of that deep grave to which I go : 

Shake hands once more.” — Tenk^yson. 

Lady Willoughby came into the room with a cer- 
tain undulating grace which would have made Marjory 
recognise her anywhere. 

“ I have come in my husband’s name and my own to 
thank you, Mrs. Austin,” she began, “ for your kind- 
ness in ” Then she stopped short and stood with 

her hand held out, staring blankly into Marjory’s face. 
“ Marjory !” she said in a whisper. 

“ Yes, it is Marjory.” 

“ You here ? What are you doing here ? Do you 
know these people ?” 

Marjory drew herself up. 

“ No, Helen,” she said, quietly, “ I am not here be- 
cause I know these people, — I am these people.” 

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“ I don’t understand you. You don’t mean to say 
that you are Mrs. Austin, — Austin’s wife, — the wife of 
Austin’s Stores ?” 

“ Yes,’' said Marjory, holding her head higher than 
ever, “I am John Austin’s wife.” 

“ The wife of the man who met us at the station the 
other day, — you — my sister, Marjory Dundas !” 

“ Yes, I, your sister, Marjory Austin.” 

In her astonishment Lady Willoughby still stood 
holding out her hand ; then she began to back away as 
if she were afraid of something. Marjory noticed the 
involuntary action. 

“ You needn’t be afraid of me, Helen,” she said ; “ I 
shall not hurt you.” 

“ But how came you to be here?” 

“I came to be here because I married John Austin,” 
Marjory replied, steadily. 

“You married John Austin! And am I the sister- 
in-law of a man who keeps a shop ? — the sister-in-law 
of that man who met us at the station the day that we 
arrived? It is incredible. And, of course, he knew 
of the relationship between us ?” 

“ Not at all ; my husband has not the least idea that 
I have ever seen or heard of you in my life before. 
When I wrote to my mother, when I ” 

“When you ran away,” put in Lady Willoughby. 

“Yes, when I ran away, I told her that I would 
efface myself from my family. I have done so. I 
have not done it in word only, but in deed. My hus- 
band’s people have not the smallest idea of my identity. 
It happened so by an accident which I need not ex- 
plain to you, — the fact remains the same. There is no 
reason for you, Helen, to take this so badly as you seem 
inclined to do; it will make no difference to you; you 
241 


16 


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need not acknowledge me as your sister, — indeed, I 
would rather that you did not.” 

“ Acknowledge you as my sister, — I ? I go back and 
tell Sir Robert that he is brother-in-law to one of his 
own tradesmen ? You must be mad. I should never 
dream of telling anybody that such a disgrace had be- 
fallen me.” 

“You are very hard, Helen.” 

“Hard? Yes, I feel hard. I feel hard, and I feel 
that it is hard upon me that I should have such a 
secret — such a shameful secret — thrust upon me.” 

“ There is no shame in the secret, Helen.” 

“You think not. Well, I disagree with you. I do 
consider it a most shameful thing, to put it quite 
plainly, when a girl — a girl brought up as you were, 
placed in a position of trust as you were — leaves 
father and mother, home and sisters, everything, all 
her life, behind her for the first common young man 
who asks her.” 

“ My husband is not a common young man.” 

“ Pooh ! You may choose to think so ; the world 
would call him such,” returned Lady Willoughby, 
haughtily. “ I prefer to abide by the fiat of the world 
in such matters. No doubt you have found him a 
jewel among paste, — I am sure, for your sake, Marjory, 
I hope so; for my part, I would prefer an undoubted 
diamond. All the same, I don’t believe that your hus- 
band does not know who you are, who I am, what is 
the relationship between us. This bracelet that I came 
to-day to thank you for, chosen by yourself, tells too 
plain a tale to the contrary.” 

“ My husband has not the very smallest idea of it,” 
said Marjory, coldly and deliberately, “ and I have no 
desire that ho should ever know it.” 

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‘‘You don’t intend to reveal yourself?” 

“ Certainly not. There is no reason why I should ; 
I have nothing to gain, so far as I can see, by proclaim- 
ing that I am your sister. You need not even tell my 
mother that you have seen me. When we meet on 
rare official occasions, it will not hurt you to be more 
civil to me as Mrs. Austin because you happen to know 
who Mrs. Austin was born. You cannot quite ignore 
me, Helen, because my husband is a very rich man and 
a man of enormous influence in your husband’s con- 
stituency. Your husband cannot afford that you should 
be rude to or ignore his wife, — I think your presence 
here to-day sufficiently explains that, — but you needn’t 
put yourself out in any way because you are at Thirkle 
and I am at Banwich. As I said just now, you needn’t 
even tell my mother that I am living here, or that you 
are aware of my existence.” 

“ I should not dream of doing so,” said Helen, indig- 
nantly, with cold and cutting emphasis. 

A sigh burst involuntarily from Marjory’s lips. 

“Oh, Helen,” she said, “how changed you are from 
what you used to be !” 

She could not shut her eyes to the fact that Lady 
Willoughby stiffened all over as if resentful of the fact 
that her sister had addressed her in just the old tone 
of sisterliness. 

“You can hardly wonder that I am changed,” she 
said, drawing herself up again and regarding Marjory 
with eyes of the most unmitigated scorn and contempt. 
“You can hardly realise how you yourself contributed 
to that change. I don’t think any one of your — na- 
ture could believe how great the shock was to me when 
my mother broke the news to me that you had gone, — 
that you had abandoned us, left us, your young sisters, 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WOKLD 


ill among foreigners and strangers, — that you had left 
us with that wretched little deceitful, low-class German 
woman, and our parents hundreds of miles away. I 
had done with the artistic life from that moment. I 
think up to then I had indulged in wild dreams that I 
would be an artist one day, — an artist! But I made 
up my mind then that I would be' my mother’s daugh- 
ter and nothing else ” 

“And you have succeeded,” said Majory, looking 
straight at her sister with her wonderful, clear grey 
eyes. “ I could hardly have believed it possible that 
you, so gentle, so dreamy, so artistic, so simple, could 
in these few years have been made not a copy of our 
mother, but to surpass her in every trait that is arti- 
ficial and unlovable.” 

Lady Willoughby’s lip curled itself into a sneer. 

“ I think you had better leave our mother out of the 
discussion,” she said, in a cold and cutting voice. “ I 
confess I do not care to discuss her with you. What- 
ever failings she may have shown to eyes as critical as 
yours, she has been a better mother to us than you have 
been a daughter to her. I don’t see that it is necessary 
to continue this extremely unpleasant interview. I 
came here as your Member’s wife to thank my hus- 
band’s tradespeople for an offering on the occasion of 
our wedding; I think I will now go.” 

“ I will bid you good-day,” said Marjory, deliberately, 
and she turned as if to ring the bell. 

“ Stay !^’ said Lady Willoughby. “ There is one other 
question which I must put to you. I have your prom- 
ise ” 

At that moment the door opened and the parlour- 
maid appeared, bringing the tea-tray. 

“Oh, thank you,” said Lady Willoughby, in quite 
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ordinary every-day tones ; “ I am afraid that I cannot 
wait for tea. It is most kind and hospitable of you, 
Mrs. Austin, but I have not very much time.” 

“It is all here, ma’am,” said the parlour-maid to 
Marjory. 

“ Put it down,” said Marjory, quietly ; “ perhaps Lady 
Willoughby will change her mind.” 

As the door closed behind the servant she turned to 
her sister again. “Don’t you think you had better 
bring yourself to swallow a cup of tea ? It would look 
very strange to the servants if our Member’s wife came 
to call upon somebody whom they consider of some 
importance within a week of her wedding-day and re- 
fused to take a cup of tea when it was actually in the 
room. You don’t want to set Banwich talking more 
than is necessary about this visit, do you ?” 

“ I would rather die than take a cup of tea in your 
house,” said Lady Willoughby. 

“Is that so? It seems a pit}^ Then we had better 
dissemble and pretend that you did take it ; so I will 
pour a little milk and tea into a teacup ; that will look 
as if you had so far honoured me. You were about to 
ask me something when Ellen came in. Do you still 
wish to ask that question ?” 

“ I do. You will promise me on your word of honour 
that the secret of your birth shall never be revealed.” 

“ No,” said Marjory, “ I neither can nor will make 
you any such promise. I might not be able to keep it. 
And although, Helen, I have sunk so low that you can- 
not even bring yourself for form’s sake to swallow a 
cup of tea in my house, I have still some notion of 
honour left ; I don’t make promises without keeping 
them to the best of my ability. I promised my mother 
when I wrote to her last that I would, as fur as was 
245 


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po^^sible, efface myself for the future. I have kept my 
promise very faithfully and not a little to my own 
detriment. I can and will promise you that unless 
dire necessity arises — which I cannot contemplate as a 
possibility — I will never reveal to the Banwich world 
who my father is; further than that I neither can nor 
will go ; further than that I do not see the necessity 
of going.” 

“ You will not promise ? I am to go on living here, 
in this hateful place, never knowing whether the hor- 
rible truth may not come out ?” 

“ I am afraid you cannot help yourself,” said Marjory, 
deliberately. “ Since you chose to marry the Member 
for Banwich, you cannot blame me for any small un- 
pleasantnesses that may befall you here.” Then she 
changed her cool, almost flippant, tone and turned more 
fiercely upon her sister. “ Oh, don’t you think, for my 
own sake, that I shall keep the secret well ? I am not 
so proud of being your sister that I shall be anxious to 
proclaim it to the whole world. Make your mind quite 
easy ; so long as you let me alone, I shall never intrude 
myself upon you. If you are proud, I was born of the 
same stock as yourself Since I have lived here in this 
different world all my old pride has been crystallized 
until it is not a part of my nature, — it is my nature 
itself” 

“ Then why won’t you promise me ?” asked Helen. 

“ Because I do not choose to fetter myself by any 
promise which I may find irksome to me. I have no 
intention of revealing the circumstances of my birth, 
the accident of my relationship to you, and with my 
intention you must be satisfied.” 

“ Then I am to be absolutely at your mercy ?” said 
Lady Willoughby. 


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“As I shall be at yours,” rejoined John Austin’s 
wife. 

“ That is obviously absurd,” said the younger sister, 
putting her head back with a movement of unutterable 
pride. “ You insult me even to suggest it. Come, ring 
your bell ; it is not necessary for me to stay here any 
longer.” 

She put out her hand with an imperious gesture, 
and as she did so the gleam of the diamonds upon her 
wrist caught her eye. In an instant, without a thought, 
in the passion of the moment, she tore the glittering 
bangle from her arm and thrust it into her sister’s 
hand. 

“ You can never expect me to wear this,” she said. 
“ Keep it, — do as you like with it. I will account to Sir 
Robert for its disappearance.” 

Then she turned away and swept out of the room, 
leaving Marjory holding the bangle in her hand. 


CHAPTER XXXYI. 

A RIFT. 

“ Keflect that life, like every other blessing, 

Derives its value from its use alone. ’ ’ 

Johnson. 

When the door had closed behind Lady Willoughby, 
Marjory did not stand very long where she had left 
her. If this matter was to be kept hidden she knew 
that she must act, and act quickly and definitely. She 
thrust the bracelet into her pocket and sat down in 
front of the little Moorish tea-table, poured out a cup 
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of tea and cut the smart iced cake. She was not much 
moved, except to anger, by this meeting with her 
sister, but undoubtedly she was extremely angry. She 
ate her cake, and even enjoyed it, then she took the 
bracelet out of her pocket and looked at it long and 
earnestly. What, her thoughts ran, would be the best 
thing to do with it? She could not keep it, of course; 
that was impossible ; she must find it, then she could 
send it over to Thirkle with a polite little note. Yes, 
that would be the best plan. Acting thereupon, she 
rang the bell, and when Ellen appeared, she said to her, 
with an admirable assumption of indifference, “ Oh, 
Ellen, go into the counting-house and ask Mr. William- 
son whether somebody trustworthy can be spared to 
go over to Thirkle? Lady Willoughby left her brace- 
let behind her, and I must send it over without delay.” 

“ Yery well, ma’am,” said the maid, with a glance at 
the glittering bauble in her mistress’s hand. 

It took the fair Ellen but a very short time to spread 
her opinion of Sir Robert Willoughby’s bride in a cer- 
tain section of society in Banwich. 

“Nasty, stuck-up thing,” she remarked; “fairly 
’orrid, I calls ’er. She called on Missis, and I carried 
in the tea, — I’m sure I wasn’t over and above long 
a-gettin’ of it ready, and the kettle was on the boil, so I 
’adn’t to wait for that, — I daresay she was just a-going 
to say goodbye, but when she see the tea, she turns 
round and . . . ‘ Oh, no, no, I ’aven’t time,’ says she, 
looking exactly as if the teapot was full o’ poison. I 
don’t know what she called on Missis for if she couldn’t 
take a cup o’ tea in the ’ouse ; and she did take one, 
after all, for two cups was used. Such ’orrid stuck-up 
ways! And when she did go, she flounced out of the 
’ouse and into the carriage, and ‘ ’Ome’ says she, in a 
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tone as if she’d meant somewhere not ’alf as nice as 
Thirkle ’All. ’Orrid stuck-up cat I call her !” 

Marjory, however, concluded that she would not 
send the bracelet back with a note, so she merely made 
it into a parcel and entrusted it to the messenger sent 
from the counting-house, and giving him her card, told 
him to say that Mrs. Austin sent her compliments, she 
I had found Lady Willoughby’s bracelet. Then Marjory 
I sat down to await the development of events. The 
development in this particular instance was remarkably 
tame. The messenger brought back Lady Willoughby’s 
card, on which was scrawled a message of thanks, and 
that was all. 

And how did you like her?” said Austin, when he 
heard from his wife that the bride had been to the 
Square. “ Very charming, isn’t she?” 

‘•I didn’t think her so. Jack,” said Marjory, coolly; 
“ I didn’t think her particularly nice.” 

“ Didn’t you — really ? Oh, I thought you’d be sure 
to like her immensely.” 

“ Ko, I don’t think I do.” 

“ Did she stay any time ?” 

“Yes, a fair time.” 

“ Did you give her some tea ?” 

“ Oh, yes.” 

“Then what didn’t you like about her?” 

“ I didn’t like her manner, — 1 didn’t like anything 
about her,” said Marjory. 

“Dear me, how strange you women are! Kow I 
had an idea she would be just the very woman to please 
you. Did she say anything about the bracelet?” 

“ Oh, yes ; she came to thank me for having chosen 
it. As a matter of fact, she must have dropped it 
while she was here, for I found it after she had gone.” 

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‘‘ You don’t say so I That’s a careless young lady to 
have valuable jewellery !” 

“ Yes. I sent it out at once, of course.” 

“I’m glad you did that. I must say I’m surprised 
to hear that you didn’t like her; it only shows how 
little one can judge for other people !” 

“ Even one’s own wife,” said Marjory, smiling. 

Marjory had been quite right when she told her 
sister that they would not often meet in Banwich. 
Months went by ere they saw each other again, — to 
speak to, that is to say. They met on some parochial 
occasion, and all Banwich was edified by the very frigid 
manner of the Member’s wife to Mrs. Austin. 

“ There, did you ever see such a shake of the hand 
as that !” exclaimed the redoubtable Mrs. Yawse eagerly 
to her neighbour, as Marjory and Helen met. “ Ah, it 
takes one of that sort to make a Mrs. John Austin feel 
that there is no occasion for her to be stuck-up. Upon 
my word, Mrs. St. Aubyn and Mrs. Fox have spoiled 
that young woman ! I’m very glad that Lady Wil- 
loughby has come to put her in her proper place.” 

“I think, dearest,” said Austin that night, as they 
went home, “ that your dislike of her ladyship seems 
mutual. She was very standoffish towards you, wasn’t 
she ?” 

“Was she?” said Marjory. “1 don’t think it verj’ 
much matters, Jack.” 

“ Not the very least in the world, only that her man- 
ner was a good deal commented on.” 

“I thought you said that her manners were so 
charming, Jack,” said Marjory, quietly. 

“ So they seemed to be. She was graciousness and 
smilingness itself when she arrived here on her wed- 
ding-day. It’s a thousand pities she should be making 
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herself so frightfully unpopular among Sir Robert’s 
constituents.” 

“ Is she ?” 

“ Oh, frightfully so ; in fact, between his pig-headed- 
ness about that right of way across the corner of the 
park, and his general inability to serve Banwich prop- 
erly and to pull anything off that Banwich wants done 
in the House, Sir Robert’s seat is not worth a farthing 
rushlight.” 

“You think he will lose it?” 

“ I’m sure he’ll lose it if anybody with a ha’porth of 
brains opposes him ; but you can’t make the beggar see 
it. ‘Ho,’ he says, ‘ I’m the fifth in the family that has 
stood for Banwich.’ It’s all very well, you know, but 
when Banwich won’t be stood for, it’s no matter 
whether he is the fifth or the fiftieth. You can’t make 
men vote where they won’t, — you can’t prove where 

I men have voted, — you can only go by the final result. 
I’ve told Sir Robert this over and over again, but he 
won’t listen to me. He sticks to it that he has a right 
to close the path from the common through his park, 

[ and that he will exercise that right if he pleases. I told 
, him this morning — I said to him, ‘ Sir Robert, you can- 
^ not afford to play fast and loose with your constituents ; 
the borough is getting more and more Liberal, not to 
say Radical, with every day that goes over our heads; 
if you want to keep your seat you must consider your 
constituents.’ ” 

“ And what did he say ?” 

“ Say ? Oh, he gave one of those upper-crust laughs 
that he’s so clever at, and he said, ‘Well, Austin, you’re 
a Liberal, although you’ve always backed me, I’m 
bound to say you’ve backed me through thick and 
thin ; you’d better stand for the seat yourself. ” 

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“ He didn’t, really ?” 

“ Yes, he did, and my lady gave a sneer, — well, upon 
my word, if she’d seen herself in a looking glass at 
that moment she’d hardly have known who she was, 
— so I just spoke out quite plainly, and I said, ‘Sir 
Eobert, if I were to stand for Banwich you wouldn’t 
have a look in.’ ‘But you won’t?’ said he. ‘No,’ I 
replied, ‘ I don’t intend to do so, except in the face of 
one necessity. If the Eadicals put up anyone to con- 
test the seat, I shall go in and save it. The people are I 
dissatisfied ; the people have got their backs up, and | 
no matter what your majority may have been in the 
past, no matter what your influence, neither you nor 
any other Member of Parliament can afford to play 
fast and loose with his constituents. They may be the 
greatest cads in the land, they may be unable to write 
their names, unable to distinguish right from wrong, 
unable to know the right end of a stick from the wrong, 
but they’ve got the power, and there isn’t one of them 
so ignorant or so stupid or so vulgar but that he knows 
how to use it !’ ” 


CHAPTEE XXXYII. 

THE RIFT WIDENS. 

“ Grace is grace despite of all controversy.” 

Measure for Measure. 

We have all heard of the gourd which grew up in a 
single night, and, metaphorically speaking, such gourds 
are common enough in human life. Occasionally men 
and women wake to find themselves famous; and 
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isometimes dissatisfaction spreads with a rapidity which 
is such as can only be called extraordinary. 

The ill-advised action of Sir Robert Willoughby in 
closing the pathway which made a short cut between 
jthe village of Thirkle and the town of Banwich began 
to bear fruit in an incredibly short space of time. To 
anyone outside the borough it would have seemed in- 
credible that only a few months back all classes were 
combined as one man to bid the Member’s bride wel- 
come to her new home; then it would have seemed as 
if never such a Member had sat for any borough be- 
fore ; now most people had, at best, but an indifferent 
word to say for him. 

don’t know what the end of it will be,” said 
Austin to his wife one day when he had come in from 
a political meeting ; “ Sir Robert won’t give in about 
the pathway, and the people are equally determined. 
I have done my best to bring him to reason, but he 
says the boys threw stones at his pheasants, and close 
the pathway he will. Undoubtedly he has the power, 
because the gates have been preserved, and they are 
shut at certain hours and on certain days in the year. 
If he didn’t value his seat it would be another thing, 
but he does value it; to be Member for Banwich is as 
the breath of life to him ; if he loses his seat he will 
feel it most horribly.” 

“He should take better means to retain it,” said 
Marjory, who was not biassed in Sir Robert’s favour. 

“ Yes, that’s so, and as I told him tp-day. ‘ Sir 
I Robert,’ I said, ‘ you are setting your seat against the 
value of a few pheasants; but it isn’t good enough.’ 
But you might as well talk to a stone wall. He’s as 
obstinate as he’s high, and my lady backs him in 
every wrong attitude he takes up. I heard by a side 
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wind yesterday that the Radicals have got their eye; 
on the place, and they’re thinking of putting forward f 
young Green.” 

‘‘ Young Green ? Of Brickley ?” 

“ Yes ; with a plea about local interest and all that sorit 
of thing; and, by Jove, in the present state of atfairs,l 
he’d stands a thundering good chance of getting in.” 

“ Have you told Sir Robert ?” 

“ Oh, told him 1 Yes, till I’m tired of telling him. 
One might as well talk to a stone wall, as I said just 
now. All I can get out of him amounts to this : ‘ My 
being the Member for Banwich doesn’t stop my beingi 
the squire of Thirkle. I don’t mind giving a sop to 
my constituents now and then, but I’m not going toi 
eat humble pie to my tenantry, — my own people. I 
won’t do it.’ I’m sure,” Austin went on, speaking in a 
tone of disgust, “that Sir Robert Willoughby had quite' 
notions enough about having been born in the purple 
before he married my lady. As if the Lord’s anointed I, 
and all that rot wasn’t exploded long since !” 

“ Not from their point of view,” said Marjory. 

“No, no. I admit the point of view; I admit all 
that; but there’s no hereditary right in the House 
of Commons now-a-days, and men who aspire to a seat 
in the House must take the times into account. I’ve 
done my best, and the archdeacon’s doing his best. 
To that end he’s persuaded my lady to play at a con- 
cert ” 

“ To play at a concert ? In Banwich ?” 

“ Yes,” said Austin, hopelessly ; “ in the town-hall, — 
full-dress concert ! I asked him what earthly good he 
thought that would do ? He said he didn’t know that 
it would do any good at all, but that the people liked 
show and it might cause a revulsion in Sir Robert’s 
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favour. As I said to the archdeacon, it’s far more 
likely to cause an extra wave of feeling against 
If she would play ‘ Grandfather’s Clock’ and ‘ Home, 
Sweet Home,’ and things of that kind, there might be 
a chance of doing some good by it ; but the kind of 
music my lady will play won’t advance Sir Robert’s 
cause very much in Banwich, I’m afraid. By the bye, 
Marjory, the archdeacon wants you to sing at it.” 

“No,” said Marjory. “I’m very sorry. I cannot.” 

“ Why not, my dear ?” 

“I don’t think I can.” 

“Well, of course, it must be as you like. And, by 
the bye, there’s to be a tea meeting, and I’ve promised 
that you shall take a table.” 

“ I will take a table,” said Marjory, “ or two tables, 
but I would rather not sing.” 

She felt that she would rather die than sing on 
a Banwich platform with Lady Willoughby playing. 
Taking a table for a semi-political tea-party was 
another thing. 

“ Is Lady Willoughby going to take a table ?” 

“Oh, yes; she’s going the whole hog. She’s going 
to have a large house-party and take half a dozen 
tables and pour out herself. I expect she’ll offend all 
those who aren’t offended already. If she looks on the 
night as she looked at the prospect of it, she’ll turn all 
the cream sour, and no matter how good a tea she 
gives that won’t condone it.” 

“ Then it’s to be a political tea?” 

“ Oh, yes, yes, for the cause. As the archdeacon 
very truly says, there’s nothing like giving the people 
something in the shape of tangible enjoyment. I 
promised a table for you for twenty-four and I took 
half a dozen tables for the business, and enough tickets 
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for all the young people ; but it won’t do any good. I 
told the archdeacon as much. I took another table 
for mother and the girls. I’m sure Sir Robert can’t 
say I have not done my best for him.” 

“You really think the Radicals will contest the 
seat ?” 

“I’m sure they will. They would be arrant fools if 
they didn’t ; they’ve every right to do it.” 

“ And if they do, you will go in ?” 

“ Yes, I shall go in if I feel I shall stand a fair chance 
of winning the day.” 

“ But you know you would have that.” 

“One never knows till one tries. I certainly should i 
not like to have young Thomas Green Member for Ban- ' 
wich if it can be avoided. And I don’t think anybody 
else would care for it either.” 

“ Then he wouldn’t even get a nomination ?” 

“ Ah, when I say anybody else, I mean the majority, 
of course. He would get a nomination fast enough.” ! 

“Do people know,” said Marjory, “ that you would I 
be willing to stand for Banwich ?” 

“ I don’t suppose they do,” said Austin. 

“ But why don’t you tell them ?” 

“ Well, it is the sort of thing I shouldn’t care to put 
exactly in that way ; if I was invited to stand, it would 
be another thing altogether.” I 

“But if they don’t know that you would stand, 
Jack, you may find yourself let in for young Green 
before you know where you are.” ‘ 

“ I don’t think so,” said he ; “ nobody will move much 
one way or the other in Banwich without consulting 
me. Sir Robert knows that perfectly well, and ho 
trusts to my being able to turn the vote for the Ban- ' 
wich Division at any moment.” 

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“ I suppose you can ?” 

“ Well, I have no doubt that I have more real influ- 
ence than anyone else in the division. You see there’s 
not a village where I haven’t got either a branch of 
the business or property of some kind. Be that as 
it may, one thing is perfectly certain, that while Sir 
Robert continues this attitude of hostility towards 
those of his constituents who are nearest to him he is, 
in a political sense, cutting his own throat.” 

“And do you think that there will be a general 
election soon?” 

“ Oh, as to that, it may come at any moment. That, 
however, has very little to do with the state of affairs 
down here. If Sir Robert was a first-class popular 
Member it would not in the least matter whether he 
sat as a Conservative, a Liberal, a Liberal-Unionist, or 
a Radical ; the Banwich Division would return the man, 
not the politician. And if the Banwich Division re- 
turns — when there is a general election — returns some- 
body else instead of Sir Robert, Sir Robert will only 
have himself to blame for it. For my part, I intend 
to do nothing but what I have done all along, — see 
how things go and shape my course accordingly.” 


17 


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CHAPTER XXXYIIL 

A SUGGESTION. 

“ No man ever worked his way anywhere in a dead calm.” 

Neal. 

As a rule, however, when a general election is ex- 
pected as likely to happen at any moment, constituents 
do not wait until the blow has fallen before they make 
up their minds as to the general conduct of the next 
contest. Before three months had gone by, several 
leading men in the town sought out Austin and put 
the case before him plump and plain. 

“We have come,” said the spokesman, who was well 
known as one of the most powerful movers against 
Sir Robert Willoughby, “ to ask your intentions.” 

“ My intentions” — said Mr. Austin — “ about what ?” 

“ Well, Mr. Austin, there’ll be a general election be- 
fore very long, and certain people in the town have 
made up their minds that Sir Robert Willoughby is 
not the man for Banwich.” 

“ Sir Robert Willoughby has done very well for Ban- 
wich up to the present time,” said Austin, quietly. 

“ That’s as things may be looked at,” was the reply. 
“We consider that Sir Robert Willoughby has done 
very well for Sir Robert Willoughby, but for Banwich 
he has done nothing, neither for the town nor for the 
division. He has made himself thoroughly obnoxious 
to a very large portion of the constituency, and we 
think that it is about time that he gave up politics and 
left them to those who take a keener interest in them, 
those who study the interests of the people more.” 

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As a matter of fact this was the moment for which 
' John Austin had long been waiting. He knew to a 
I nicety what he intended to say, but he was in no hurry 
' to reply. 

j “ Of course I know,” he said, when he had given his 
I visitors a sufficient time to dwell upon his apparent 
thoughtfulness, — “ of course I know that Sir Robert 
! Willoughby has made himself very unpopular about 
j that right of way.” 

t| “ That is a mere trifle,” said the spokesman. 

“Well, I suppose it is a mere trifle, but mere trifles 
mostly turn the day in such matters as this. So far as 
, I have any politics, I am a Liberal, as my father was 
before me ; I have supported Sir Robert, as my father 
j supported him, because he was practically the only man, 

‘ and he seemed to be a very good Member indeed ; not a 
brilliant one, but a good, honest, well-meaning Mem- 
ber, who lived among us and spent his money among us. 
At the same time I am sensible that public feeling has 
changed towards him, it has been changing for some 
time, and latterly, of course, I know that the situation 
has become almost, intolerable, — not to me, but to a 
great many people whom it concerns more intimately. 
I should like to know, gentlemen, why you have sought 
me and my opinion particularly in this matter?” 

“Well, we wished to know what your intention is, 
Mr. John,” said one who had not yet spoken. 

“ My intention as regards what ?” 

“Your intention as regards your vote.” 

“My intention to vote for Sir Robert Willoughby? 
If he stands I shall certainly vote for him.” 

“ He will certainly stand. He looks upon his posi- 
tion of Member for Banwich as his by divine right. 
We look upon him as the representative of the people, 
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knowing that the time for divine right has gone by; 
it is done for, it is exploded.” 

“ I am quite with you there,” said Austin. 

“ I suppose you’ve done your best to bring Sir Robert 
to reason ?” 

“ About the right of way ? Yes, I may say fairly 
that I have done everything that lies in my power to 
do. I have argued the case with him over and over 
again, but 1 can make no impression upon him. He 
persists that he has a right to close that path with- 
out let or hindrance. He has the right, — that is indis- 
putable, — the legal right, that is. As to the moral side 
of the matter, I, of course, think that he is extremely 
ill-advised to act as he is doing, bui , at the same time, 
I do not see that it makes him any worse Member for 
Banwich than he has been heretofore.” 

“ He has never been a good Member for Banwich,” 
said the spokesman. “ He is full of cut-and-dried old 
Tory ideas, which he calls Conservative ideas, that were 
all very well twenty years ago, or even ten years ago, 
but as things are going to-day, they won’t do for Ban- 
wich people any longer. In short, Mr. Austin, we want 
to be rid of him, and we mean to be rid of him, and 
we would like to have your opinion.” 

“ I have told you my opinion. I think that Sir Rob- 
ert is just as good a Member as he has ever been.” 

“ And you don’t mean to oppose him, — ^you don’t 
mean to withdraw your support from him ?” 

“No, I don’t think so.” Then John Austin turned 
and looked searchingly at the several hard, determined 
faces. “Now I will ask a question,” he said, “ in my 
turn. What have you in your minds? You didn’t 
come here to-day to ask me for a mere opinion. Be open 
with me. What is it that you have in your minds ?” 

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The spokesman, who was the husband of our old 
friend Mrs. Yawse, breathed heavily ere he replied. 

“ Well,” he said, at last, speaking very slowly and 
deliberately, “ we’ve had about enough of Sir Robert 
Willoughby, — to that we’ve made up our minds, — and 
we none of us have much fancy for a stranger coming 
in to represent the Banwich Division. We’ve got wind 
that the party is thinking of sending down some young 
barrister or other, who will only use Banwich as a 
stepping-stone to the woolsack, and we think we are 
too good for that sort of thing. We want a Member 
of our own. We do not want a Member who is just 
thinking of his own ends.” 

“ Well ?” said John Austin. 

“Well, there’s young Tom Green, of Brickley.” 

“ Tom Green !” 

“ He’s a smart fellow. He means to get into Parlia- 
ment, and he’ll stand for Banwich if he’s invited.” 

“ I should think he would,” said John Austin, care- 
fully scrutinizing the tips of his fingers ; “ yes, I should 
think he would be very glad, indeed, to stand for the 
Banwich Division.” 

“ Well, Mr. Austin,” said the spokesman, “ if he did 
stand for the Banwich Division, should you give him 
your support ?” 

“No,” said John Austin, “I should not.” 

“ And why not ?” 

“Because I shouldn’t. I do not see that young 
Green, of Brickley, is at all the man for such an impor- 
tant division as Banwich. I should not like to see him 
the Member for Banwich at any price, and I should 
certainly not support him. If you’ll bring forward the 
right man to sit for Banwich I might be induced to 
support him ; but you must bring me the right man, 
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and the right man is not young Green, of Brickley. > 
He’s a smart, pushing young fellow, but he has no i 
interest in the place, — no vested interest in the place, I 
should say, — and it would be a mere stepping-stone to , 
him. You are all incensed against Sir Eobert and you j 
feel that any change will be an improvement, but any 
change will not be an improvement, and unless you 
bring forward a man of more weight, a man of more 
dignity, and a man of more brains than young Green, 

I shall certainly not take my support away from Sir 
Eobert. I am willing to do anything, gentlemen, for 
the good of the division, and especially for the good of 
the town of Banwich, but I do not know that my sup- | 
port makes much deference one way or the other.” 

“ Why, you must know perfectly well,” rapped out 
Mr. Yawse, “that your vote would carry the day for 
whoever goes in.” 

“ I doubt it,” said John Austin, although he knew 
perfectly well that it was true, “ I doubt it very much. 

In that case I ought to be all the more careful to whom 
I give it. If you bring forward a man — a man of 
parts, an man of good, sound judgment — I will do my 
best for you ; but use my influence to turn out Sir Eob- 
ert in order to put in a whipper-snapper like young 
Green — although personally I know nothing against 
him — I won’t ; I simply decline, and from that I shall 
not go back.” 

“ That’s all very well,” said the spokesman, testily ; 
“you talk as if men that had vested interests, men 
with good, sound head pieces and every other desirable 
attribute, were growing on every bramble-bush. Where 
can we find a man who is to be all you say ?” 

“Ah, that’s your business,” said Austin, quietly. 

“Unless,” said Mr. Yawse, looking up with the light 
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of a sudden new idea, — “unless we were to look for 
him in the person of John Austin himself. There! 
What do you say to that, Mr. John ?” 

Austin looked up with a start, and each one of his 
auditors believed that the idea of ever standing for 
Parliament had never entered his mind before that 
moment. 

“ And what do you say to that ?” said William 
Yawse, triumphantly. 

“Well,” said Austin, with great deliberation, “I 
don’t know that it would ever have occurred to me to 
put myself forward as the Member for Banwich, but 
if I had sufficient encouragement to believe that my 
fellow-townsmen and the rest of the division believed 
that it would be for the best that I should represent 
them, that I should do my best for their interests in 
the House of Commons, I don’t know that I should 
say no. At the same time, it would have to be made 
quite clear to me that I should be adequately supported : 
I should not dream of going in on any terms short of 
being assured that a large majority of the division 
wished me to do so.” 


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CHAPTER XXXIX. 

ENMITY. 

“ Criticism lias few terrors for a man with a great purpose.” 

Beaconsfield. 

The news that there was a possibility of John Austin 
standing for Parliament spread through the constitu- 
ency like wildfire. As with the voice of one man the 
verdict went forth, — “ The right man in the right 
place, — the very man for us ! We all know what he 
is ; he is one of ourselves, born among us and reared 
among us ; he has grown up in our midst, he has more 
than doubled his business and the fortune his father left 
him ; the most rising man in the entire division ; level- 
headed, keen-witted, capable, and stedfast !” “ What 

in the world,” cried Mr. Yawse, thumping his hand 
down upon the table of the inn where the meeting 
was being held, “ can we want more than we know 
we have in John Austin?” 

Accordingly a movement was set on foot for the 
purpose of formally inviting John Austin to stand in 
the Liberal interest at the next general election. Even 
then, he did not jump with unseemly haste at the 
chances thus held out to him of gratifying what we 
know was his darling ambition. When the second 
deputation waited upon him, bringing a formidable 
list of names of those eager and ready to support him, 
he would not give an answer off-hand. 

“No,” he said, “ I must have a few days in which to 
think it over. Although, so far as I have any politics, 
I am a liiberal, I have hitherto always supported Sir 


INTO AN UNKNOWN WORLD 


Robert Willoughby; I must see him before I can defi- 
nitely accede to what you are good enough to wish. I 
must ask you to give me a week in which to think 
matters over. This will give me a chance of seeing 
Sir Robert, of consulting my wife, and of thinking 
over the entire situation.” 

And with this they were obliged to be contented. 

The day following this, therefore, John Austin went 
over to Thirkle and asked if Sir Robert was at home. 
Sir Robert was at home, and Austin was ushered into 
the handsome library, where he was presently joined 
by the master of the house. 

“ Well, Austin,” said Sir Robert, “you wanted to see 
me.” 

“ I did. Sir Robert, and I’m afraid I’ve come on a 
mighty unpleasant errand.” 

“ Is that so ? I’m sorry to hear it. What has hap- 
pened ?” 

“ Well, Sir Robert,” said Austin, “ I’m afraid that 
that trouble about the right of way has borne definite 
fruit at last. I yesterday received a deputation who 
came formally to invite me to stand in the Liberal 
interest for Banwich.” 

“ You ! To stand for Banwich !” 

“I, to stand for Banwich. It is just here. Sir 
Robert : I have supported you ever since I had a vote. 
I have no wish to oust you, but, on the other hand, I 
have no wish to see Banwich represented by somebody 
who is either a total stranger to the place — as it would 
be in the case of a candidate sent down by the Reform 
— or by somebody who has neither the local position 
nor the ability to carry proper weight with him. One 
of these two contingencies is imminent. The Liberal 
party have long been on the lookout for the joints in 
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our harness, and they have taken firm hold of the fact 
that you are utterly out at elbows with the majority 
of your constituents.” 

“ I don’t acknowledge that I am.” 

Austin laughed outright. 

“ My dear Sir Robert,” he said, “ excuse me, but it is 
not possible that you can be so blind to the truth as 
not to know that you are the most unpopular man in 
Banwich this day.” 

“ It’s a beastly ungrateful place,” said Sir Robert. 

“I grant you that. I grant you that the value .of a 
few pheasants is not worth a seat in Parliament. I 
grant you that you have been a liberal member as far 
as your interests go, a complacent member as far as 
the majority of your constituents goes. I grant you 
that a right of way across a corner of your park is not 
worth — ^is not sufiicient excuse for — getting rid of a 
man who has by a sort of divine right been Member 
for Banwich for a great many years ; but you cannot 
arrange these things by the light of reason. The 
people one and all are thoroughly up in arms on sev- 
eral points, the most tangible of which is this right of 
way. It is no use talking about reason. Sir Robert, 
when you’ve got to deal with country voters. You’ve 
got to the wrong side of them, and in this matter they 
have absolutely the better of you. Now, Sir Robert,” 
said Austin, standing up — Sir Robert, by the bj^e, had 
never asked him to sit down — and looking the baronet 
full in the face, “ you know perfectly well that I have 
stood by you for many a year; you know perfectly 
well that whatever faults I may have I am, what I 
have always been, a square man. We will put out of 
the question whether it is your fault or the fault of 
your constituents, and if you please we will try to 
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look at it in a dispassionate light. You won’t win the 
election. That is a foregone conclusion.” 

“ I will win it,” said Sir Robert, turning very white 
and setting his face into very hard and ugly lines. 

“ I’m afraid,” said Austin, “ and it is no use mincing 
matters, you haven’t the ghost of a chance. Now, it 
has come to this, — it will either be a perfect stranger 
sent down by the Reform, young Tom Green, of Brick- 
ley, who is as incapable of representing Banwich in 
Parliament as I am of managing the kingdom of China, 
or it will be John Austin, whom everybody knows, 
whom the majority trust, and whom most people admit 
to have above the ordinary business head on his shoul- 
ders. Now, Sir Robert, I am not going to do anything 
in any hole-and-corner way. I told you months ago 
that, under certain conditions, I might possibly stand 
for Parliament. I am a very busy man ; I hardly 
know which way to turn. It will cost me thousands a 
year, — for I can ill afford to spare the time from my 
own business, — but Banwich is my native town, — Ban- 
wich is everything to me, — and before I accept the in- 
vitation I have had I think it is only honourable and 
right that I should acquaint you with my inten- 
tion.” 

“In short,” said Sir Robert, looking Austin over 
with a disapproving gaze, — “ in short, Austin you have 
made up your mind to have my place.” 

“ If I don’t a worse man will.” 

“That is presupposing that I should notwin the day 
at an election.” 

“ I am sure you would not. It is a foregone conclu- 
sion. If you are wise, and I may speak quite plainly 
to you, you will not contest the seat ; then you will be 
spared the humiliation of losing it.” 

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For a moment Sir Robert did not speak. 

“ I shall contest the seat as I have always intended 
to do,” he said at length, in a cold and distant voice. 
“ Your patriotic protestations have no weight with me. 
I can quite understand that having made money you 
are very anxious to clinch your position by becoming 
the Member for Banwich. But you will not do so 
with any help of mine. I shall contest the seat. I 
warn you I shall spare neither time nor money to gain 
my end. Go on, John Austin, turn your coat, do your 
worst, but you are not Member for Banwich yet.” 

“ Nay,” said John Austin, “ I have no need to turn 
my coat. I have supported you in the past, as I would 
support the best man under any circumstances, but a 
Liberal I was born, a Liberal my father was before 
me, as a Liberal I shall stand and, mark my words, 
as a Liberal I shall sit. I am sorry. Sir Robert, that 
you should feel as you do about it. You must not 
forget that months ago I begged you, urged you, en- 
treated you to give back that pathway. 1 warned you 
what would happen.” 

“ Pooh ! And you’ve been working against me ever 
since.” 

“ Not so ; that I absolutely deny. You cannot bring 
one single person to say that I have been working for 
this end. I come to you as one honourable man to 
another to acquaint you with my intentions. Why, Sir 
Robert, it is not so many months since you yourself bade 
me, with a sneer, sit for Banwich. There’s many a true 
word spoken in jest ; and though I did not know how 
nearly true it was that day, I have seen you ever since 
then gradually — no, not gradually, but rapidly — alien- 
ating yourself from your people, from the people by 
whose will you sit in Parliament, and now it has come 
268 


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about that the people whom you have despised are 
risen almost to a man against you.” 

“ We shall see that,” said Sir Robert, hoarsely. 

“ If you mean to contest the seat, I am afraid that 
we shall see it, and I hope,” he ended, holding out his 
hand, “ that for the sake of the past you will allow it 
to be a friendly contest.” 

At this Sir Robert absolutely lost control over himself. 

“ No, sir,” he said, “ I do not care to take your hand. 
I regard you as a traitor to your chief, as a would-be 
usurper of my rights. Go on, do your worst, contest 
the seat, but you are not the Member for Banwich yet, 
and while I can raise a hand to prevent it you never 
shall be.” 

So John Austin turned and passed out of the hou8e> 
leaving a friendship behind and carrying away a bitter 
enmity in its stead. 


CHAPTER XL. 
crow’s nest. ' 

“ Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreathing around 
it. ” — Longfellow. 

In after-years, when John Austin looked back over 
this part of his life, it seemed to him as if he had lived 
hard enough for half a dozen men. Having definitely 
promised his fellow-townsmen that he would eventually 
stand for Banwich, he did not merely sit down and 
await the coming of the general election. He was a 
highly ambitious man ; he had no notion of being con- 
tented to sit as a merely ornamental Member; the 
gratification of seeing the two letters M.P. after his 
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name was not all-sufficient for him ; he meant to be 
a real Member of Parliament, he meant to be as great 
a force in the House of Commons as he had been 
in the town of Banwich. And the first two things 
that he did by way of preparation for his new life 
were to set about finding a house more suitable to the 
dignity of the prospective Member for Banwich than 
the old residence in the Square, and to arrange for 
turning the great business into a company. 

“I have always meant, you know, to turn it into a 
company sooner or later,” he said to Marjory, “ and now, 
in this new aspect of affairs, the time is not only ripe 
but actually pressing. It will be better for all of us to j 
have a certain amount of money definitely settled, and, | 
by turning the business into a company, I shall shift 
the responsibility off my own shoulders in a great 
measure. This will give me more time to devote to 
the business of the division if I am returned.” 

“ You are sure to be returned,” said Marjory. 

“ Well, nothing is sure in this world except one 
thing, and that has nothing to do with being returned 1 
to Parliament,” he said, smiling. “ In any case, if I | 
should get thrown, I should like to have more time for 
other things than has been possible in the last ten j 
years. I have been nowhere, seen nothing, done ‘ 
nothing; I have kept you, poor little woman, tied 1 
down here in this narrow life when you ought to have ! 
been going about the world and enjoying yourself. It i 
will mean a lot of work forming a company, but it will 
give me time for other things when it is done.” 

“ Do you think, then,” said Marjory, “ that it is wise 
to be changing house just now ?” 

“ Yes, I do, when we can meet with a house to suit 
us ; most decidedly I do. In the first place, when the 
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business is turned into a company they will have to 
take over the whole of the premises, and it would never 
do for me to be occupying them ; and, as a matter of 
fact, we have occupied them too long, — we have stayed 
on in the Square too long. We ought to have left it as 
soon as my father died. Of course, in a sense, it has 
been easier for me, because I have been on the spot and 
I have been spared the fag of continually passing to 
I and fro, and in that sense it is just as well that we 
stayed where we were. By the bye, I heard by a side 
wind the other day that Crow’s Nest is in the market.” 

“Crow’s N'est! Why, where is that, Jack?” Mar- 
jory asked. 

“ It is about four miles from here, a very pretty 
place, and it is a thousand pities that it should ever 
pass away from its owner.” 

“ And why is he selling it ?” 

I “ Simply because he cannot help himself. It is to be 
had for something between seventy and eighty thou- 
j sand pounds ; it is worth a great deal more than that.” 

“ And you are thinking of buying it ?” 

“ W ell, I should like you to go over and see it first. 
I shouldn’t like to buy a place unless you fancied it. 
j It was only yesterday I heard that George Meredyth 
I is open to sell the whole thing as it stands, furniture 
I and all. To make a change like that would not be like 
I having to do up a place inside and out and entirely to 
refurnish ; we could go straight in and settle it all in 
our own way by degrees. I shall know in a couple of 
days whether it is a firm offer or only idle talk.” 

However, in the course of a few days, Austin told 
his wife that the hint that had been given him as to 
Crow’s N'est was real enough, and he asked her to drive 
i out with him and see the place. For some years now 

271 


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Marjory had had her own pretty victoria, and she and 
Jack drove out to Crow’s Nest together that very after- 
noon. 

That visit was one of the most eveatful days in Mar- 
jory’s whole life. When she came upon the charming 
property, — when she saw the dark woods and the un- 
dulating park, the broad terraces and smooth stretches 
of turf, the great cedar-trees and the well-kept bowling- 
alleys, the many glass houses and conservatories, — she 
realised for the first time that her husband was in truth 
the merchant prince whom she had married in all good 
faith. During all these past years she had patiently 
put up with the home over her husband’s shop. She 
had not patiently endured the society of all the middle- 
class people in Banwich, it was true, but she had lived 
without complaint a life of the utmost isolation and 
loneliness. And now, at last, she was to go back to 
what would be at least the outward form of the life to 
which she had been born. She would have her boudoir, 
her maid, a suitable establishment of servants; her 
children would be brought up absolutely apart from 
the other small children in Banwich, association with 
whom she had so much dreaded. She might still be 
lonely, she might still be isolated, but it would be a 
ditferent kind of loneliness, a different kind of isola- 
tion. Hitherto it had been, in a sense, loneliness in a 
crowd. 

She liked Crow’s Nest beyond what words of mine 
can express. The great entrance-hall with its wonder- 
ful oaken furniture ; the drawing-room full of carved 
black wood, the very embodiment of stateliness and 
dignity ; the library filled with books and rich in Chip- 
pendale ; the dining-room equally rich in pollard oak ; 
she was enchanted with all. The spacious and sijnny 
272 


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bedrooms, the long corridors, the grand staircase, all, 
all was charming to her. 

“ Oh, why is he giving it up ?” she said, in an almost 
passionate whisper to Austin. 

“ Because he thinks there is no pleasure in life like 
the excitement of gambling,” was Austin’s reply. “ He 
has melted everything else on the card-table, and this 
will go the same way as the rest.” 

Accordingly, the next social convulsion which took 
place in Banwich was when the news went forth that 
John Austin had bought Crow’s Nest and was going to 
live there himself. 

“Of course, it is all her,” said the gossips to one 
another. “ Banwich was never good enough for her, 
though nobody knew who she was nor where she came 
from.” 

“The idea of that little stuck-up minx being the 
mistress of Crow’s Nest!” said Mrs. Yawse to her 
husband. 

“Well, I don’t see why she shouldn’t be at Crow’s 
Nest ; you may bet John Austin has paid a pretty penny 
for it, and a man who has paid for a thing and paid for 
it honestly, has a right to enjoy it if he’s a mind to.” 

“1 can’t think what Mr. Meredyth can have been 
after to sell it in that way; why didn’t he sell it in 
London?” cried Mrs. Yawse. 


“ Mr. Meredyth only cares for one thing in this world, 
and that is the green cloth of the gambling-table,” said 
William Yawse, sententiously. “He doesn’t care a 



whacking lump out of John Austin, and as long as any 
of that remains unmelted, Mr. Meredyth will make 
himself quite happj^, with never a thought of Crow’s 
Nest^to trouble him.” 

Is 


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“ And what will he do when that’s gone ?” demanded 
Mrs. Yawse, tartly. 

“ Ah, that’s more than one can say. There seem to 
be several courses open to the regular gambler. Some 
of them make a hole in the river, and some of them do 
it with a pistol.” 

“ Oh, pa, how can you be so horrid ?” cried Peggy. 

“ It’s not horrid, my dear, it’s the truth,” said Mr. 
Yawse, in his most heavy father manner. “In France, 
I believe, they do it with charcoal, and those that don’t 
take that respectable way out of the difficulty become 
vagabonds and hang on to their friends. Some few 
drink themselves to death, and manage to bring things 
to a close just about the time that their ready money is 
exhausted. The end is always the same.” 

“ Well, that’s as may be,” said Mrs. Yawse ; “ I think 
it’s a great pity to see that little stuck-up thing mis- 
tress of Crow’s Nest. Of course she was always too 
good for Banwich and everybody that the Austins 
knew in it; but we were never enlightened as to who 
she was and where she came from, and now that you’ve 
cockered up John Austin into sitting for Parliament, 
Mrs. St. Aubyn herself won’t be good enough for her.” 

“John Austin will make a very first-rate Member 
for Banwich, my dear,” said William Yawse ; “ and per- 
haps it is just as well that Mrs. John has not mixed 
herself up too much with local society ; she’ll not make 
a worse Member’s wife on that account; and, at all 
events, whatever her little failing may be, she’ll be able 
to hold up the dignity of the town in London. That’s 
not a small thing. I have no doubt whatever that I 
could get in for Banwich myself ; but I haven’t money 
enough for one thing, and I can’t speak in public for 
another. Ko, no, don’t you get interfering ; John Aus- 
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tin will be the right man in the right place, you lake 
my word for it. As for Mrs. John, I must say for my 
part I have never seen anything about her that is not 
quite the lady, — quite the lady. She’s not the kind 
that sits in your pocket, and a very good thing too ; it 
has always been my opinion that if ladies would keep 
themselves to themselves a little more than they do, 
there wouldn’t be so much tittle-tattling and scandal- 
mongering in Banwich.” 

“I’m sure there’s no scandal-mongering that I ever 
I encourage,” said Mrs. Yawse, in a highly offended tone, 

I “and it’s not at all nice of you, pa, to suggest it.” 

“ If the cap doesn’t fit, you need not put it on,” said 
Mr. Yawse, in his most critical tones. 

“ Oh, I didn’t put any cap on,” said Mrs. Yawse, 
indignantly flouting the idea. “ I, thank goodness, 
have no need to ; but where a certain person takes up a 
I cap and holds it up to general view and points at one, 
it doesn’t take a born fool to see that that cap was 
I meant for one’s own particular head. I haven’t lived 
I with you, William Yawse, for twenty-nine years with- 
] out knowing you inside out and exactly what you mean 
every time you open your mouth. I suppose young 
I Mrs. John has been extra civil to you over this elec- 
tioneering business, and so you’re ready to take up the 
cudgels for her at once. Well, take ’em up, but don’t 
expect me to join in the cry and say that she’s the 
nicest and the cleverest woman in Banwich.” 

“Oh, dear! oh, dear! oh, dear!” cried the old man, 
hurriedly gulping down his tea and preparing to depart, 
“I never said anything about her being nice or clever; 
but, say what you like, you cannot deny that she has 
been a good wife to John Austin ; at any rate, she’s 
been a lucky wife to him, for everything has turned to 
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gold that he has touched since he has married her.” 
And with this Parthian shaft, Mrs. John Austin’s de- 
fender bolted from the room. 

“ Your pa is quite right in one thing, Peggy,” said 
Mrs. Yawse, as the door closed behind her retreating 
spouse: “she has been a lucky wife to young John. 
Really, he has never looked behind him since he was 
married.” 

“ Well, it was a lucky marriage for her,” said Peggy. 

“ Ah, yes, Peggy,” chimed in her mother, “ I always 
said that ought to have been your place. Eh, dear! 
dear 1 but you made a sad miss when you refused John 
Austin.” 

“I never did refuse him, ma,” said Peggy, indig- 
nantly. I 

“ Oh, well, well,” said the old lady, “ you may call it | 
what you like, but when a young man goes off in a 
huff and comes home with a wife nobody ever heard of 
before, it’s what most people would put down as a 
refusal. We won’t split hairs over that, Peggy, but 
oh, dear, to think that my daughter might have been 
the Member for Banwich I” 

“ John Austin isn’t Member for Banwich yet, mother, 
and in any case, I should only have been his wife, even 
supposing he had asked me, which he never did.” 

“ Ah, but he understood. I shall always regret it, 
Peggy ; it will be the one great regret of my life. I 
can’t tell what you were thinking of I And to think 
of that little upstart, that nobody ever heard of before 
she came here, lording it as the mistress of Crow’s 
Nest! It’s fairly sickening!” 


276 


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CHAPTER XLL 

A NEW VENTURE. 

“ It is needful that you frame the season for your own harvest.'* 
i Much Ado about Nothing. 

I HAVE always thought that the poet Tennyson never 
I struck deeper into the heart of human nature than 
I when he wrote the “ Northern Farmer” : 

I “ Doant thou marry for munny, but goa wheer munny is !’* 

It is a sentiment which gauges human nature very 
accufately, nor does it apply only to arrangements of 
marriage. Mrs. John Austin of Austin’s Stores was 
one person, and Mrs. John Austin of Crow's Nest was 
somebody so different in the estimation of Banwich and 
its neighbourhood, that she might have been excused 
: if she had scarcely known herself to be the same person. 

Mrs. St. Aubyn might have had something to do with 
this, for as soon as she saw Marjory settled at Crow’s 
i Nest, she gave her some very excellent, albeit, worldly 
I advice. 

“Now, my dear,” she said, “a great deal of your 
husband’s future depends upon you. If you are nice 
to everybody in the town to whom you have ever 
spoken, and you are equally nice to everybody that you 
now meet for the first time, you will help him immeas- 
urably. If I were you, I should give a garden-party.” 

“ Grive a garden-party !” echoed Marjor3^ 

“ Yes, a garden-party. A garden-party is an excel- 
lent thing, because you can ask all sorts and conditions 
of people to it without their knocking up too much by 
one another and treading on each other’s heels in any 
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way. Yes, I should give a garden-party, and I should 
ask everybody that you know, and I should have first- 
rate refreshments and a good band. You will find it a 
most useful form of entertaining people.” 

“ But is it necessary to entertain ?” 

'‘Yes, at this juncture, most necessary,” said Mrs. St. 
Aubyn, deliberately. 

“But, Mrs. St. Aubyn, the archdeacon is a rigid 
Conservative.” 

“ Yes, I know he is, and of course his principles, poor 
thing, will insist that he votes for Sir Eobert ; that Mr. 
Austin must excuse; but, fortunately, the archdeacon’s 
principles do not extend themselves to me. I am not 
obliged to take up Sir Eobert’s quarrels any more 
than I am obliged to regulate my visiting list by Lady 
Willoughby’s likes and dislikes.” 

“ I know that she dislikes me,” said Marjory, quietly. 

“Oh, well, you can afford that she should. I am 
sure,” she continued, “it seems hard to tell why he 
should be so set on keeping his seat as he is; every- 
thing connected with the town seems to bore him now. 
He never used to be like this ; he used to seem so proud 
of being the Member for Banwich and so fond of 
Thirkle. She dislikes Thirkle so much; it’s quite a 
pity.” 

“ Does she dislike Thirkle so much ?” asked Marjory. 

“ Oh, she hates the place. She will never stay here 
a day longer than she can help ; therefore it seems 
such a pity that he should be bent upon standing 
again.” 

“ Is Lady Willoughby as anxious that Sir Eobert 
should be returned again ?” 

“ Oh, desperately so ; indeed, she is quite rabid on 
the subject,” returned Mrs. St. Aubyn. “ I said to her 
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only yesterday, ‘ I wonder, since you dislike Banwich 
so much, that you care about it.’ ‘ Mrs. St. Aubyn,’ 
she said, ‘ if ray husband is not returned at the next 
election I am quite sure that I shall be like Queen 
Mary, and that after I am dead the word Banwich will 
be found engraved on my heart.’ ” 

“ What did you tell her?” asked Marjory. 

“ Well,” said the archdeacon’s wife, “ I told her that 
I thought she had much better prepare herself for the 
worst, — for a disappointment.” 

“ And what did she say to that ?” 

“ Oh, well, she was so intensely disagreeable I don’t 
think I will tell you what she did say.” 

By which Marjory not unnaturally concluded that 
Lady Willoughby had said something about herself. 

“ I don’t much like the idea of giving any kind of 
party,” she said presently. 

“ Talk to your husband about it ; you will find that 
he will recognise the wisdom of it. You see, you will 
have to give many entertainments of that kind if once 
he is returned. You did not think it wonderful when 
Sir Robert gave festivities of one sort or another?” 

“ Ko ; but then he was the Member.” 

“ That is so ; but you will be wise to do it now before 
it gets too near to the election time ; then, of course, 
you could not do it, — it would be called bribery. But 
nobody could say a word against it now ; indeed, you 
could call it a house-warming.” 

So Marjory did consult Austin, who unhesitatingly 
plumped for Mrs. St. Aubyn’s idea, and with that lady’s 
help they issued invitations to many hundreds of people, 
and when the day at length arrived it was found that 
nearly everybody had accepted. 

Mrs. Yawse declared it made her feel quite ill to see 
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young John Austin and his wife entertaining the 
neighbourhood ; but that did not prevent her from 
going early and staying late, from enjoying herself 
hugely among all her friends, and from regaling her 
self amply in the refreshment tent. She only once 
gave vent to an expression of repining in the presence 
of Peggy; it was when that young lady chanced to 
find herself near to her mother on the principal lawn 
in front of the house. 

“ Eh, dear,” she burst out, with a sigh which showed 
how full her heart was, “ to think that it should have 
been yours, Peggy !” 

Peggy looked apprehensively round, saw that no 
one was within earshot, and then turned upon her 
mother with a sharp, hissing whisper. 

“Ma, just drop it,” she said, and, turning away, 
walked off indignantly, keeping for the rest of the 
afternoon as wide a berth between her mother and 
herself as the limits of the gardens would allow. 

“A great success, my dear,” said Mrs. St. Aubyn, 
when the party was at its height. “Everybody so 
pleased and delighted with everything. Now, are you 
not glad that you followed my advice ?” 

“ Oh, yes, indeed,” said Marjory, with a smile. “ It 
was only that I felt so diffident, Mrs. St. Aubyn. I 
didn’t believe people would have come like this.” 

“ Ah, they are queer sort of people who can resist an 
invitation,” said the archdeacon’s wife, as she passed 
on. 

Undoubtedly the party was a great success, and 
from that time forward the mistress of Crow’s Nest 
had no lack of visitors, nor did there seem in the mind 
of anyone to be the smallest doubt that John Austin 
was the future member for Banwich, — not even in the 
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minds of those who were the most staunch supporters 
of Sir Robert Willoughby. 

For the then Member, it was naturally an exceed- 
ingly trying period. He had forgotten the support of 
the past ; he chose to regard and invariably to speak 
of John Austin as a renegade, a turncoat, and a back- 
slider, an ingrate of the deepest dye ; utterly regard- 
less of the fact that John Austin owed him nothing, 
and that all cause for gratitude was not from John 
Austin to him but from himself towards John Austin. 
He practically forbade John Austin’s name to be men- 
tioned in his presence, and yet he eagerly sought the 
fullest information of his movements. Then her lady- 
ship at Thirkle let fall some scoffing remarks on the 
garden-party and on the accounts thereof which after- 
wards appeared in the local papers, and these not un 
naturally were brought back to the person about whom 
they were spoken. 

“ I can’t think,” said Marjory, “ why she should feel 
as she seems to do about me or why she should be so 
bitter. I never did anything to hurt her.” 

“ But your husband is going to do something which 
will hurt her, — he is going to be the Member for Ban- 
wich,” said her informant. 

“ If he doesn’t somebody else will.” 

“ Yes, but she won’t hear that for a moment, and 
perhaps it is not unreasonable that she does make a 
personal matter of it,” was the reply. 

If Marjory could have hidden all this bitterness in 
her own breast she could have put it on one side and 
thought no more about it ; but unfortunately, although 
she had made herself so unpopular among her hus- 
band’s constituents. Lady Willoughby had as yet great 
social influence in the division. She seemed as if she 
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could never let the subject of her husband’s rival rest. 
At all times she was ready with a few sharp words, 
which seemed to undo all that Marjory was building 
up ; she was a continual thorn in the side of her sister. 
She no longer made a pretence of even bowing to her 
when they met in the street ; they were open enemies. 
True, it was a one-sided enmity, for Marjory, with that 
curious weakness which comes to us all at times, would 
have given her ears to have been her sister’s friend. 
In a certain sense Lady Willoughby was as a person 
possessed. She started a systematic plan for propiti- 
ating the entire division, and especially the town of 
Banwich. She called upon people whom she had never 
condescended to notice before ; she was extremely 
careful what she said about Parliamentary matters and 
the forthcoming election ; she spoke with assurance of 
what Sir Robert meant to do next year or the year 
after, and everywhere she let fly some little poisoned 
shafts which were intended to fall and work mischief 
in the camp of the enemy. 


28 ! 


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CHAPTER XLIL 

SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

“ Give me the avowed, the erect, the manly foe.” 

Canning. 

It happened in the course of these peregrinations 
that Lady Willoughby found her way to the house of 
Mrs. Vawse. Now, Mrs. Yawse very much prided her- 
self that they were what she called “private;” that is 
to say, her husband was a builder and contractor in 
quite a considerable way of business, and he lived in a 
smart villa on the outskirts of the town, not very far, 
indeed, from Clive House. Mrs. Yawse was not a 
little flattered by Lady Willoughby’s condescension, 
although her common sense must have told her that 
the visit had been prompted by motives of self-interest. 
Still, it was a gratification to have the Thirkle carriage, 
with its smart blue and silver liveries, standing at her 
front gate, and although Mrs. Yawse was blessed as a 
rule with plenty of sound common sense, she was not 
above the flattery which such a visit conveyed. She 
hurried upstairs and put on her best cap and an extra 
brooch or so, and then bade her housemaid bring in the 
cake and wine. It was a curious relic of barbarism ; 
but although Mrs. Yawse was in the regular habit of 
offering afternoon tea to the visitors of her own kind, 
she would have considered it a great piece of imperti- 
nence to offer anything so homely to the Member’s 
wife. Immediately, therefore, after she had entered 
the room, the heavy footed country maid gave a great 
thump at the door and entered with a large tray on 
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which were set decanters of port and sherry, a rich 
cake in a silver basket, and several very smart dessert 
plates. 

At any other time Lady Willoughby would have ex- 
claimed in horror at the idea of drinking a heavy wine 
at four o’clock in the afternoon, but like many others, 
when she had an object to gain, she could put herself 
to considerable pains and go out of her way with com- 
placent smiles. She graciously accepted the glass of 
port, which was excellent of its kind, and a huge wedge 
of the plum cake, and when she had disposed of part 
of it and had seen Mrs. Yawse nearly through her 
glassful, she ventured to speak of the great subject 
then uppermost in her mind. 

“And I hope, Mrs. Yawse,” she said, “that your 
husband is going to stand by Sir Robert by and by as 
he has always done.” 

“Ah, my lady,” cried Mrs. Yawse, “now you’ve 
touched the trouble. Oh, dear, to think that I should 
ever see my husband dropping off from him that he’s 
supported all these years ! I don’t say a word against 
John Austin, my lady; he’s a clever young man, he’s 
pushed his way up to the front to some purpose ; he 
always had it in him, he was clever as a boy, — the only 
clever one of the family, — but it’s not young John’s 
push that has brought this affair about.” 

“ No ? What, then ?” 

“Ah, my lady,” said Mrs. Yawse, “marriage made 
all the difference in the world to young John Austin.” 

“You don’t say so!” said Lady Willoughby, in a 
voice like vinegar. “ Why, is she not a nice person ?” 

“Handsome is as handsome does,” said Mrs. Yawse, 
a little vaguely, seeing that Marjory’s looks were not 
being called in question. “ She came here a bride, my 
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lady, about six years ago. Of course, everybody in 
Banwich saw that she was too good for the place. 
Between ourselves it was just like this, — my girl refused 
him.” 

“ Your daughter refused John Austin ?” 

“ That was just it,” said Mrs. Yawse, warming to her 
subject and becoming more oblivious of the truth even 
than usual. “ She never will own to it, but it was the 
case. He went away, — ^went abroad somewhere, — and 
he met this Miss — this Miss — Douglas ” 

“ Oh, Miss Douglas !” 

“ Yes, that was her name, and they were married. 
Nobody knew anything about it till he brought her 
back ; nobody knew anything about it, not even his own 
father and mother. I wonder it didn’t break the old 
people’s hearts, but they thought he could do no wrong 
and they swallowed it.” 

A kind of convulsion passed over Lady Willoughby’s 
face. 

“ Oh, then, they didn’t know who she was ?” 

“ She might have been anything, — she might have 
been anybody,” said Mrs. Yawse, mysteriously. 

“ You think that she was not respectable ?” 

“ Oh, as to that,” said Mrs. Yawse, “ she’s been well- 
conducted enough since she came to Banwich, oh, yes, 
but that high and mighty, you know, my lady, — much 
too good for the likes of us. The most extraordinary 
thing is that she’s never had a single relation or friend 
to stay with her since she’s been here ; there’s not a 
single photograph of any of her own kith and kin in 
her drawing-room ; she might have dropped from the 
clouds or sprung from nowhere, like the princess in 
the fairy tale, for any sign that she’s made of having 
relations or belongings of any kind at all. At first, 
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Banwich couldn’t believe it. The people here are all 
solid, respectable, well-connected families, to whom 
family ties are of great importance, and a good many 
people put the question as to who Mrs. John was and 
where she had come from quite plainly.” 

“ And they got no information ?” 

“Never a word. The Austins couldn’t give it be- 
cause they didn’t possess it. The old gentleman said 
he was satisfied, and nothing was ever got out of him, 
but Madam kept herself to herself, exactly as if she 
was afraid of something being found out.” 

“ Then was Mrs. John received here, — I mean by her 
husband’s friends ?” 

“ Well, as to that,” said Mrs. Yawse, still with an air 
of deep mystery, “ it can’t be said that Banwich ever 
took her up.” 

“And now that she has gone to Crow’s Nest she has 
taken Banwich up, eh?” said Lady Willoughby,, with a 
disagreeable laugh. 

“ Well, I think,” said Mrs. Yawse, — “ I think mostly 
people went out of curiosity.” 

“Did you?” 

Lady Willoughby disposed of the last morsel of cake 
and put the plate down upon the nearest table. 

“ Well,” admitted Mrs. Yawse, — “ I will confess that I 
was curious to see how she would play the great lady.” 

“ And how did she play it?” 

“Just as if she’d been born to it,” said her hostess. 

“H’m!” Then Lady Willoughby got up. “It seems 
to me that there must be something very shady about 
the lady’s past,” she said, in her most icy and forbid- 
ding accents. “We don’t have mysteries in these days 
without some good reason for them. Well, goodbye, 
Mrs. Yawse ; I have enjoyed my little talk with you 
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very much. You ought to try and bring your husband 
to a proper sense of his duties and his responsibil- 
ities.” 

“I’m afraid that is impossible,” said the old lady, 
mournfully. 

It happened that Mrs. Yawse had several more vis- 
itors during the afternoon. Several of her neighbours 
who had seen the Thirkle carriage wailing at the gate 
came over to hear the news and to ask the reason of 
this unexpected honour. 

“ Did she say anything about the Austins ?” asked one. 

“ Indeed she did, and it is very evident to me,” said 
Mrs. Yawse, “ that she thinks Mrs. John no better than 
she should be.” 

“ You don’t say so !” 

“ Oh, but I do. She said to me here, as she stood on 
this very spot on the carpet, ‘ Well, goodbye, Mrs. 
Yawse,’ said she; ‘I’ve enjoyed my little chat with you 
very much indeed, and I shall come in again before 
long ; and it seems to me,’ says she, ‘ that with regard 
to her we were talking about, there has been some- 
thing very shady about the young lady’s past, — very 
shady;’ those were her very words. ‘ We don’t have 
mysteries,’ says she, ‘ in these days without some good 
reason for them.’ And I durst lay a sovereign,” said 
Mrs. Yawse, speaking now on her own account, “that 
my lady will succeed in getting to the bottom of the 
mystery about John Austin’s wife. My lady’s got her 
blood up about the next election, that she has. She’s 
as proud as Lucifer and as haughty as you please, and 
if there is anything to find out about John Austin’s 
wife, she won’t let it lie asleep, that you may depend 
on.” 

“All the same, you know,” put in another voice, 
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“ we have never seen anything in Mrs. John that was 
not strictly correct and all right.” 

“ My dear,” said Mrs. Yawse, portentously, and wav- 
ing her hand mysteriously in the air, “ when one of 
that sort gets a husband she can play propriety with 
the best of them.” 

Meantime, Lady Willoughby was driving rapidly 
aloDg towards Thirkle. She sat bolt upright in the 
handsome carriage, her face — which had never been 
soft and lovely like her sister’s — set in hard and scorn- 
ful lines. Her thoughts were wholly bitter. 

“ Is this clod to supplant my husband ?” she asked 
herself Is it possible that after I have carried this 
hateful secret, which has poisoned my very life ever 
since I have been in this detestable town, so long that, 
after all, we are going to be beaten on our own ground 
and by these two ? Oh, the very thought of it is hor- 
rible! And here I am, going round on a perfectly 
hopeless quest. How that old woman hates Marjory ! 
She wanted to catch this tradesman for her own girl. 
She never refused him. Is it likely, the daughter of 
that mother ? And her stupid old fool of a husband, 
of course he has gone over to the other side. Oh, how 
I hate the place !” 

“ Eobert,” she said, imperiously, when she joined her 
husband on reaching home, “ who was that Mrs. Aus- 
tin ?” 

“ Which Mrs. Austin ?” 

“ The wife, — the one at Crow’s Nest ?” 

“ I don’t know,” he replied. “ She’s a very pretty 
woman.” 

“And you don’t know who she was?” 

“I haven’t the least idea. They said she was a 
lady, — she certainly looks it, — and she certainly looks 
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wretched. How could she look anything else ? Aus- 
tin’s a strong, pushing, dominant chap, — a regular out- 
sider, with tradesman written all over him. Why do 
you want to know about her ?” 

I only wondered, that was all. I have been round 
this afternoon, as usual, trying to ingratiate myself 
.with all these dreadful Banwich people.” 

“ Where have you been ?” 

“ Well, for one I went to see Mrs. Yawse.” 

“ Oh, you don’t mean to say you’ve been there !” 

“ Yes, I have.” 

“ But he’s one of Austin’s strongest supporters ; he’s 
one of my deadliest enemies ; it is not of the very 
smallest mse your going there.” 

“Well, Robert, I don’t know. The old lady was 
pleased enough to see me, and virulent enough about 
the Austins.” 

“ You don’t say so ? Oh, I thought they would have 
been her dearest friends.” 

“ Kot a bit of it. She says there was a mystery 
about Mrs. Austin, — she doesn’t seem to be friends with 
anybody here.” 

“ Oh, I should quite think so. If she was a lady, 
— and she certainly looks it, — what could she have 
in common with the Yawses and people of that 
kind?” 

What could she have in common with John Aus- 
tin?” asked Lady Willoughby, almost involuntarily. 

Sir Robert turned and looked at his wife. 

“ Well, do you know, Nellie,” he said, “that’s a ques- 
tion that I have asked myself thousands of times. 
He’s a clever, long-headed chap, mind you, he has 
doubled and trebled his business and made himself a 
whacking great fortune, but what there could have 

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been about him to attract a lady is simply beyond my 
comprehension. I have thought once or twice ” 

« Yes?” 

“Well, I wouldn’t say it to anybody but you, but 
I’ve thought once or twice that perhaps she was some- 
one who had had a facer, and she wanted to get a com- 
fortable shelter in the country where she could hide 
herself.” 

“ You don't mean that?” 

“Yes; well, yes, I mean it, but I don’t know it. 
That’s only my feeling. I have looked at her several 
times, and I have never been able to come to any other 
conclusion that spelt common sense.” 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

GIVEN BACK. 

Sometimes the best gain is to lose.’’ — H erbert. 

A FEW months went by and at last the long-expected 
day had come. A little in advance of the natural 
course of events the Government had fallen, and all 
England was on the eve of a trial of strength. In 
Banwich the excitement was immense. The usual 
formalities had been gone through. The Reform, hav- 
ing enough on its hands, had wisely forborne to inter- 
fere, being indeed pretty confident that the Liberal 
candidate would carry the day. There was much 
speech-making, there was much house-to-house visi- 
tation, and the issue of many addresses, and there was 
excitement everywhere. The appearance of the town 
was ruined for the time, for every house and wall had 
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its placard addressed to “The Independent Electors 
of the Banwich Division.” How both sides worked ! 
What energy was expended, what gratitude pledged, 
what promises made ! Even Lady Willoughby forgot 
her haughtiness in the intense anxiety and excitement 
of the moment, and I think, like the beautiful duchess 
of old, she would have gone so far as to barter her 
kisses if, by so doing, she could have insured her hus- 
band’s return. 

But if Lady Willoughby was anxious and determined 
that her husband should win the day, yet even more so 
was Marjory. She astonished Austin by her powers 
of endurance, her ceaseless energy, and her entirely 
sagacious behaviour. He had not realised that her in- 
fluence was so great. He had imagined that she was 
rather disliked for her reserve of manner and her de- 
termination to keep herself to herself ; and to a great 
extent this was true as far as people in their own set 
were concerned. But Marjory had, ever since her 
friendship with Mrs. St. Aubyn, worked very hard 
among the poor, and to a woman these were on her 
side. The arguments used by these humbler friends 
' of Marjory’s towards their spouses were very drastic 
and withal very simple. 

“For why should ye vote for Sir Eobert?” said one. 
“ What has Sir Eobert ever done for you, what is Sir 
Eobert ever likely to do for you, except to shut up his 
park and send you ’alf a mile farther round to your 
work every night and morning? Don’t talk to me 
about Sir Eobert; do summat for them as ’as done 
summat for you I When my Tommy was down with 
the fever, who was it come with no more fear in her 
blessed eyes than if she’d been a hangel out of ’eaven ? 
Who was it brought ’im jelly and beef- tea with ’er own 
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*ands ? It wasn’t my lady at Thirkle ; much she’d ’a’ 
cared whether my Tommy ’ad lived or died ! Go you 
an’ ask Thirkle people, — see what Thirkle folks’ll say, 
— ’er ’usband’s people, living under ’er own nose I An’ 
what’s she ever done for you? Nothing. Just as 
much as Sir Eobert has done for you. Don’t talk to 
me about standing by them as you know 1 Surely you 
know John Austin well enough, — ’im as ’as made work 
for thousands of us all over the country-side. Don’t 
talk to me about stickin’ to them as ’as done nothing 
for you 1 Who was it took Maria Wilkins up to Lon- 
don to see a great London doctor and brought her 
back cured, — mother o’ nine children an’ them as was 
a-comin’ after? It wasn’t my lady at Thirkle! Don’t 
talk to me about sticking to them as ’as done nothing 
for you! You stick to ’im as you owe summat to. 
Why, ’twas only two years since, just after you broke 
your leg, when our Polly was going out to ’er first 
place, what did John Austin say to me when I went to 
’im an’ I says, ‘ Mr. John, you’ve known me all my life, 
an’ you know I’m an honest woman ? Froggit’s down 
with ’is leg broke, but his place is kep’ open for ’im, an’ 
our eldest girl is goin’ out to ’er first place. I wants 
the clothes for ’er, Mr. John, but I can’t pay for ’em ; 
I must ask you to give me credit.’ What did ’e say, 
what did ’e say to me ? John Austin ’e says, ‘ Take 
’em, Mrs. Froggit, take what you want ; I’m sorrj^ your 
man’s ill; an’,’ says ’e to me, ‘now I’ll give your Polly 
a little present just to start ’er with.’ An’ ’e up andj 
gives me a length of black serge for ’er Sunday frock., 
That’s what ’e’s done for me ; that’s what ’e’s done for 
you. Don’t talk to me about your Sir Eoberts and 
your ladies at Thirkle; let ’em stick to Thirkle an’^ 
hang theirselves !” I 


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And this was but an instance of many. The hard- 
headed business people had a natural leaning for the 
hard-headed business man ; the struggling poor had an 
equally natural leaning towards him from whom honest 
work was to be had, and whose wife had shown them 
tenderness in tribulation. What cared such people for 
parties ? What cared such electors for politics ? What 
cared such men and women whether a man was the 
fifth of his line who had sat in the hall of the nation, 
or whether he had never in his life before set foot in 
St. Stephen’s ? Human nature is human nature all the 
world over. Marjory Austin had not worked for six 
years among the poor for nothing, nor had my lady at 
Thirkle looked down with scorn from her pinnacle 
without gathering the consequences thereof. 

But if Marjory was determined, so was my lady at 
Thirkle. She had thrown aside all her distancy of 
manner, and each day, wearing her smartest costumes, 
she drove here and there, scattering smiles and honeyed 
words in a way which, had she always done the same, 
would inevitably have carried the day. The men she 
dazzled, but not the women; their remarks were con- 
sistently severe. 

“A high stepper,” said one woman, with disgusted 
scorn, to her spouse ; “ a bold, stuck-up hussy, I call 
her, coming flaunting here in her velvets and furs when 
our bairns is crying wi’ cold. Let ’er go back to Lon- 
don, where she come from. I says to ’er this morn- 
ing, I says, ‘I’m very sorry to disoblige you, my lady, 
but my man’s vote is bespoke ; my man ’as give Sir 
Eobert ’is vote more than once, an’ I don’t see that 
we’re any better for it, and,’ says I, ‘ if you could per- 
suade Sir Eobert to tak’ down them gates, ye might be 
doing some good,’ which was a plain ’int to ’er ladyship 
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that she wasn’t doing any good traipsing round, as she 
was a-doing of then.” 

Apparently, the same information greeted Lady Wil- 
loughby wherever she went, for that evening, when 
they were talking the situation over at dinner, she 
looked down the long table and said, “ Eobert, there is 
only one thing that you can do to win this election, and 
that is to give back that pathway through the park.” 

“ I’m not going to do that.” 

“Then you’ll be thrown, as sure as you are sitting 
there this minute. What do you think, Mr. St. Os- 
wald?” turning to the agent, who sat on her right 
hand. 

“ I have thought the same all along, Lady Wil- 
loughby; I have told Sir Eobert all along, a great 
many times, that that concession would save the seat, 
— withholding it will lose it.” 

“ I don’t see ” began Sir Eobert, obstinately, 

when his wife interrupted him with a flash of indigna- 
tion in her eyes. 

“ You don’t see, Eobert, because you won’t see ; but 
in every house I’ve been into to-day I’ve heard the 
same tale. One would think that all these wretched 
cottagers living miles in the other direction were in the 
daily and regular habit of using that bit of pathway, 
for the tale is everywhere the same, — ‘ Why should we 
do anything for Sir Eobert when he’s shut us out of 
that corner of the Park ?’ It’s not worth it, Eobert ; 
the people have had that pathway practically forever, 
and you are certainly throwing away your seat by the 
course you are taking. This man Austin has been 
building up his place here for years, buying the people. 
Wherever I go, it is the same, — either tales of his 
goodness, or of his wife’s charity, or of the work he 
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creates ; always one thing or another. I quite under- 
stood that Mrs. Austin was not received in the town.” 

“I never heard that,” said St. Oswald, soothingly. 
“ I think there has been a general opinion that she was 
somebody of a better position than Austin himself, and 
that she found the society of the Banwich people dis- 
tasteful to her. She has always been very intimate 
with Mrs. St. Aubyn.” 

“ Who was she ?” said Sir Robert. “ Where did she 
come from ?” 

“Ah, that I can’t tell you,” answered the agent. 
“She’s a beautiful woman and a perfect lady, and one 
can hardly wonder that she did not find her closest 
friends in Banwich. She has always been on very good 
terms with her husband’s people, and certainly Austin 
has always upheld her in keeping herself to herself if 
she chose to do so.” 

“Well, now, I always understood,” put in another 
of the men present at the table, “ that there was some- 
thing queer about Mrs. Austin. Let me see, St. Oswald, 
didn’t she come here all in a hurry, so to speak ? Was 
it a runaway marriage, — what was the story ?” 

“ I believe Austin did run away with her.” 

“ Wasn’t she sprung on the town in a kind of way ?”^ 

“ I believe she was. Yes, now I come to think of it, 
I fancy she was.” 

“ I saw her to-day,” said Lady Willoughby, with a 
sneer, “driving in a victoria as smart as you please, 
with the horses all tied up with blue ribbons and the 
coachman and footman with huge blue rosettes. And 
she was all dressed in blue from head to foot and look- 
ing as sure of her place as if the election was over and 
she had won by a thousand majority. 1 shall never 
get over it if they beat us,” she added. 

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“ I am afraid that they will,” said Mr. St. Oswald, 
drawing his breath in between his teeth with the sharp 
hissing sound which is always indicative of apprehen- 
sion. “ But one thing is very certain, if anything can 
save us, it will be giving back that pathway. Even 
now, I don’t know that it would not be too late.” 

“Try it, Robert,” cried Lady Willoughby, persua- 
sively. 

“ Very well,” he said, “ you shall have your way. I 
don’t believe in it myself, but I should not like you to 
think afterwards that I might have won by giving in.” 

“You’ll announce it this evening? There’s not a 
moment to lose.” 

“ Oh, yes, the sooner it’s known the better.” 


CHAPTER XLIY. 

ANY STICK TO BEAT A DOG WITH. 

“ Back- wounding calumny 
The whitest virtue strikes.” 

Measure for Measure. 

The news that Sir Robert Willoughby had given 
way to the wishes of the people concerning the park 
road spread throughout the constituency like wildfire. 
It created quite a revulsion of feeling in his favour. 
After all, they had misjudged him ; after all, there was 
some excuse for his action ; undoubtedly his pheasants 
had been stoned, and when a man has spent money 
rearing pheasants, it is hard lines if they be made a 
prey to all the unruly boys in the neighbourhood. 

Then it was delicately suggested by Sir Robert’s 
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agents that a little too much fuss had been made about 
John Austin’s power of providing employment for the 
working-man, and the division was reminded that Sir 
Robert, in his way, also gave a good deal of employ- 
ment. There were people to look after his pheasants ; 
there were game-keepers, and park-keepers, and gar- 
deners, and many others employed about the estate, 
who would be hard set to find a place in which they 
could make an honest living if Sir Robert Willoughby 
did not exist. Supposing that he gave up preserving 
his game, — well, in a couple of years there would be 
no game at all ; the estate would be quite barren in that 
respect. John Simmons, the head game-keeper, and all 
his underlings would be thrown out of work. After 
all, if Sir Robert had his expensive tastes, he paid for 
them, and his money circulated among his neighbours. 
Supposing that Sir Robert lived only for himself, spent 
nothing but what was absolutely necessary, the neigh- 
bourhood would not be the better but the poorer for it. 
Of course, the arguments ran, he has been very angry 
about the destruction of his pheasants, but he had given 
way to the general wish ; he had proved that his bark 
was worse than his bite. He had sat for Banwich for 
many years, and they had always been satisfied with 
him until now ; it was rather scurvy treatment to turn 
a man out of his seat for a matter of huff. And so a 
good many of those who had been most in favour of sup- 
porting John Austin wavered in their new allegiance, 
and doubted whether, when the eventful day came, 
they would not return and support the old favourite. 

Then about this time an ugly rumour, none knowing 
whence it came, arose in the town about Austin’s wife. 
It was freely stated that Mrs. Austin was a child of 
mystery, that it would be most disastrous for an im- 
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portant division like Banwich to be represented by a 
man whose wife would not be admitted into London 
society. The whole story of Austin’s marriage was 
raked up again, gone over, added to, talked of, and 
commented on, until Austin and Marjory themselves 
might have been excused had they failed to recognise 
that the marriage was their own. It was, perhaps, 
human nature, it was at least electioneering nature, 
that the agents of Sir Robert Willoughby, on discover- 
ing that this was the way the cat was jumping, should 
take every Mvantage of the scandal to press home 
their own candidate’s irreproachable claims to consid- 
eration. 

“ You all know who Lady Willoughby was ; her 
family is one of the oldest and most respected in the 
kingdom ; her life is as an open book before you. We 
have heard it said that her ladyship has a haughty 
manner, — that is possible enough, — Lady Willoughby 
has a right to choose her own manner ; Lady Wil- 
loughby’s position is, and always has been, unassailable; 
she is above buying her husband’s seat in Parliament. 
As the wife of your Member, she has hitherto main- 
tained that position with absolute dignity, both in Lon- 
don and in the division. We will mention no names, 
but the other lady’s life begins with her marriage. It 
is not an open book; it is fast sealed against you, and 
always will be. Some few of you may think that this 
is an affair of little consequence, that the private life of 
a Member of Parliament has little or nothing to do 
with his political position. That is a mistake. There 
is no position in life in which the private life of any 
person is not of importance, in which it is not an 
essential factor. It is a simple matter to return a 
Member of Parliament ; it is not a simple matter to be 
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a good and efficient Member. It may not matter what 
a man’s wife is, if his chief aim in life is to build up a 
large business, — the business and the wife are totally 
diiferent. The Member of Parliament and the wife, on 
the contrary, are inseparable.” 

Now these were some of the arguments which though 
not publicly stated were yet freely used on Sir Robert’s 
side by his agents. Sir Robert and Lady Willoughby 
were so determined to win the day, that those who 
were assisting in the election cared not what mischief 
they wrought so long as they carried their end, and 
the effect of these insinuations, coupled with the fact 
that Sir Robert had once more thrown open the park 
road, was that a great wave of popularity once more 
arose in Sir Robert’s favour. People are not over-scru- 
pulous in election times, and the enemy pressed the 
advantage home with an insistence which was nothing 
short of cruelty. Sharp and clever verses began to 
make their appearance, all having Marjory for their 
text. Cartoons appeared also, cruel, clever things, 
showing Mrs. Austin attempting to scale the ladder of 
political society. Men began to doubt whether John 
Austin would be the Member for them, whether he 
would be the right man in the right place; and the 
women with whom Marjory had passively declined 
intimacy, all raked up their past feelings and openly 
gloried that Mrs. John was to be found out at last. 

Of course the opposition did not' long remain in 
ignorance of the latest move of the Willoughbites. At 
first Austin laughed the whole idea to scorn as being 
too paltry for him to notice, but when the days went 
by and the same insidious weapons met him at every 
turn, he began to realise that the scandal had taken 
deeper root than he could have believed possible. Two 
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days before the election he made an indignant speech 
upon the subject. 

“ I hear,” he said, “ that the honour of my wife has 
been assailed and impugned. It is almost too con- 
temptible for notice. My wife came among you a 
young girl ; she has lived openly and fearlessly among 
you from that day to this ; I defy any man or woman 
in Banwich to bring one word to her discredit. She has 
been the best of wives, the most perfect of mothers, 
the most self-respecting and considerate of neighbours.” 

“ She has been trying to live it down,” broke in a 
voice from the far end of the hall. 

A roar of laughter greeted this sally, and John 
Austin’s face went a shade whiter than before. 

“ I don’t know who said that,” he said, contempt- 
uously ; “ it sounded like a man’s voice. If that man is 
man enough to stand up, I will settle the question with 
him as man to man.” He paused a moment, but no- 
body in the great hall moved. “ I thought that man 
was only man enough to be a skunk,” said John Austin, 
speaking very slowly and deliberately. “ Perhaps he is 
one of the other side, who have no better weapons to 
fight with than to assail a woman’s honour. We have 
made no such hints, we have made no such despicable 
assertions on our side, and I for one would scorn to 
represent in Parliament, among honest men, a division 
which could be won by such base means. Electors of 
Banwich, you all know me for what I am, — some of 
you have known me ever since I was born, — you can- 
not say that you have ever found me out in a mean or 
despicable trick. My ancestry may not date back to 
the Crusaders, but . . . my hands are clean !” 

A British crowd will always cheer sentiments of this 
kind, and Austin was cheered to the echo that aftcr- 
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noon. But among the cheers there were many hisses, 
and then a rough voice called out, Tall talk is all very 
well. I mean no disrespect to the lady, but why don’t 
you disprove everything that has been said? We’ve 
been told within the last few days that Lady Wil- 
loughby’s life is like an open book ; can you say the 
same of your wife’s? If you can, why don’t you do 
it? You’ve got something tangible to take hold of; 
why don’t you take hold? Grasp your nettle. I’m 
one of those who want to see John Austin Member for 
Banwich. Think over it, sir; grasp your nettle.” 

As a matter of fact John Austin sat down with a 
face like a sheet, and several members of his committee 
filled up the breach as best they could by uttering cer- 
tain platitudes bearing more or less upon the case, and 
finally the meeting broke up, leaving the vast audience 
under the general impression that, although John Aus- 
tin had talked very tall, the accusations brought against 
his wife were in the main true. 

Now it happened that Austin, knowing that he was 
going to make a speech on the subject of his wife’s 
good name, had asked her to remain at home. 

“ I can’t very well speak of you,” he had said to her, 
“ in your presence, and it is imperative that, whether I 
win the seat or not, we shall get to the bottom of this 
infamous slander.” 

So when he arrived at Crow’s Nest in time for a six 
o’clock dinner, he was in the lowest and most dejected 
of spirits. He had asked his supporters not to accom- 
pany him. 

“ I have had a facer this afternoon,” he said frankly 
to them, “ and I would rather be by myself until the 
time for this evening’s meeting.” 

“Mr. Austin,” said the principal man on his com- 
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mittee, “ that fellow who spoke last gave you excellent 
advice, — ‘ Grasp your nettle.’ You have got to a point 
where, for your wife’s sake, it is necessary that you 
should take some notice of this accusation. It is not a 
mere Parliamentary seat, it is not merely a Parliamen- 
tary matter, it is something more important than that 
so far as you and Mrs. Austin are concerned. Can 
you not say something more definite to-night ?” 

“ I must talk to my wife,” said Jack, hoarsely. 

“If you could satisfy these curiosity-mongers a 
little!” his friend went on. “It seems very absurd 
that such a question should arise, but I think if you 
were to tell them who your wife is, who her father is 
or was, that it might turn the scale of your chance and 
save your wife from a great deal of unpleasantness 
later on. It seems utterly absurd that it should be 
necessary, but indeed I think it would be the wisest 
course.” 

“ I must speak to my wife,” Austin repeated. 

It came home to him during the brief four miles’ 
drive to Crow’s Kest that in truth he knew nothing 
about his wife’s people ; that in a sense he had taken 
her entirely upon trust, as she had taken him. 

“ Marjory,” he said to her as soon as he reached the 
house, “ it’s all up with us unless you can sati.sfy these 
brutes as to who you are. I don’t know what differ- 
ence it makes to them. You are the same woman who 
has lived among them all these years. They have left 
you alone all this time, and now they are like wolves 
baying for your blood. My dear girl, unless you can 
satisfy them that there is nothing against you tfiere is 
not the ghost of a chance for us, either of the seat or 
of peace in the future. They’ve said — of course it 
comes from the other side. The other side have started 
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it ; Willoughby and his wife — they’ve said that before 
you married me you were no better than you should 
be. And I am helpless. I said what I could this 
afternoon, but, after all, I couldn’t satisfy them. I 
could only talk largely about your honour and the 
meanness of fighting with such weapons as the assail- 
ment of a woman’s character. If I could have said, 
‘ My wife is the daughter of such a man,’ the whole 
tide would have turned in my favour. But I was 
tongue-tied, because I was ignorant. Marjory, cannot 
you give me a weapon which will enable me to fight 
these brutes and get the better of them ?” 

She looked up at him. 

“ Jack,” she said, “ for days I have seen this coming. 
I didn’t think that the Willoughby s would be mean 
enough to take this particular method of warfare. It 
does seem despicable lor people in their position, doesn’t 
it? But don’t worry yourself. Come and eat your 
dinner. I will go with you to-night, and I will speak 
for myself.” 


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CHAPTER XLV. 

A BOLD FRONT. 

“ Things base and vile, holding no quantity, 

Love can transpose .” — Midsummer Night's Dream. 

Don’t you think,” said Austin, as they were driving 
up to the door of the hall later in the evening, “ that 
you had better let me speak for you ?” 

“ No,” said Marjory, in a low, determined voice, “ I 
will speak for myself” 

You are sure that you can satisfy people?” 

“I think so,” she said, smiling. 

“ My dear, more hangs upon it than this election. 
If you cannot satisfy them entirely, we had better 
leave it alone ; but if we let it pass without justifying 
ourselves, our lives will not be bearable in this neigh- 
bourhood any longer.” 

“My dear Jack,” said she, in a perfectly quiet and 
collected voice, “ I entreat you to leave it to me. I 
will satisfy everybody in Bunwich, including yourself, 
before we go home to-night. You have trusted me. 
Jack, all these years. You have never asked me a 
single question about myself or about my people. 
Poor boy! you don’t even know who they are. To- 
night you shall be enlightened, and others in Banwich 
also. Don’t fret yourself about it. Don’t say any 
more, or I shall not have strength to say what is neces- 
sary. Remember, I am not accustomed to facing a 
great audience.” 

“ It won’t be too much for you ?” 

“ No, no. I mean you to be the Member for Ban- 
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wich. I mean you to gratify your dearest ambition. 
I mean to smite the other side hip and thigh.” 

“ And you can ?” 

He was still anxious. You see he did not know ; he 
was in the dark. 

When Marjory appeared on the platform in her well- 
fitting dress of bright blue silk, with a little blue velvet 
hat upon her silky hair, her appearance was greeted 
with a huge howl. It was hard to say whether it was 
one of derision or one of welcome, or of the two com- 
mingled. Marjory was as cool as a rock and took her 
seat, eyeing the great multitude with interest. In ac- 
cordance with her wish, Austin at once spoke on the 
subject which was uppermost in their thoughts that 
night, — the accusations which had been brought against 
his wife. 

“ My wife,” he ended, “ is here to speak for herself. 
I will ask you to give her a patient hearing.” 

There was great applause and tumultuous clapping 
of hands. A roar of applause greeted Marjory as she 
rose from her seat and came to the edge of the plat- 
form. She was intensely pale, and though she showed 
a calm front, she was trembling from head to foot, so 
that she was glad of the roar of applause, which en- 
abled her somewhat to collect her senses. As fast as 
the storm of greeting died down it rose and rose again, 
and Marjory stood there alone, a slight, elegant figure, 
looking vainly over that tumultuous sea for some sign 
of calmness. At last she put up her hand as if to ask 
for a hearing, and when at length the great audience 
had hushed itself into repose, she spoke. 

“ Good people of Banwich,” she began, — her voice 
was distinct and clear, and made itself heard in every 
corner of the vast hall, — “ good people of Banwich, I 
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must ask you to hear me to-night with patience. I 
have never spoken in public in my life before, and I 
sincerely hope that I shall never be called upon to do 
so again. This once it is necessary, because I am told 
that my husband is in danger of losing his election by 
reason of certain charges which have been brought 
against me. I do not know, good people, that it can 
matter to anybody in Banwich or elsewhere whether I 
came of gentle people or of those who work and toil 
for their daily bread. As much as my husband and his 
family know about me would seem to he sufficient for 
our fellow-townsmen. However, it seems that you are 
desirous of knowing more than this ; it seems that our 
opposers have stated publicly that I shall be a disgrace 
to your Member, if you should elect my husband ; it 
seems that our opposers have stated as a certain fact 
that I should not be received in political or in any de- 
cent society in London as the wife of the Member for 
Banwich. They do not state why. They give no reason 
for this extraordinary assertion, excepting that you 
and some of them do not happen to know who my 
father was, — of what family I was born, — what life I 
lived before I became the wife of one who has grown 
up to manhood among you. I must confess, good 
people of Banwich, that I had never before conceived 
that so much venom and virulence could enter into the 
spirit of an election ; that those calling themselves hon- 
ourable people could deliberately put forward argu- 
ments which, if not refuted, would virtually destroy 
the social and domestic peace of those in opposition to 
them. I am here to-night to give you that informa- 
tion. That some of our opposers do know exactly who 
I am, exactly where I was born, exactly what my life 
was before I became John Austin’s wife, will have be- 
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come apparent to you when I have told you that I am 
Lady Willoughby's sister , — that my father is the Hon- 
ourable George Dundas. Stayl” she went on; “hear 
me yet a little longer. I am not so fond of public 
speaking but that I shall be glad to sit down and retire 
into private life forever. Hear me a little longer; 
there are other things that you should know. You 
shall know everything to-night. I want you to know 
the whole circumstances of my meeting with John 
Austin. I was a very young girl, — a girl with her 
two sisters staying abroad in charge of a governess. 
I met John Austin through that lady. I fell in love 
with him, and I ran away with him. We were married 
in London two days afterwards. I have never seen 
any of my people from that day to this, excepting 
when Lady Willoughby came to see me immediately 
after her marriage, when, naturally, I could not deny 
myself to her. When I was married, I renounced my 
family, because I had no wish to force my husband 
upon them. They were of a different sphere. I had 
left their sphere ; I was happy and content to make 
myself a home in another ; 1 should have been happy 
and content never to disclose that there was any tie 
of kinship between Lady Willoughby and myself ; but 
this scandal has come from the Willoughby camp, this 
scandal has been put forth by Sir Eobert Willoughby 
or his agents. My sister by a word could have stopped 
it at the fountain-head ; my sister has not spoken that 
word, and therefore she has left me free to tell the 
truth. Now, good people — electors of Banwich — you 
see the integrity, the honesty of the man who would 
represent you in Parliament. Eeturn Sir Eobert Wil- 
loughby if you will ; let the lady who would impugn 
the honour of her own sister be the one who will be 
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welcome in London drawing-rooms. If you can return 
such a Member, you will indeed have chosen one well 
worthy of you ; neither my husband nor I will regret 
your decision for one moment !” 

She was no longer either pale or timorous-looking ; 
she had forgotten her nervousness and the unaccus- 
tomed position in which she found herself, and she 
stood revealed for what she was, — an aristocrat to her 
finger-tips, courageous as Joan of Arc, scornful of 
slander, and as ready to fight as a lion. As she flung 
down the gauntlet at the feet of the entire electorate 
of Banwich, a vast shout arose, such as made the roof 
echo again and again. 

“ By the Lord above us, she’s won the day !” cried 
one of the Election Committee. “It was touch and 
go, but her pluck has done it ! Go it, my lads ; shout 
yourselves hoarse! That’s right; you can’t shout too 
long for us I By Jove, what an eye-opener this will be 
for the other side !” 

Perhaps never before in the annals of history had 
such a scene taken place in the decorous little town of 
Banwich. The seething mass of men and women in 
the hall had risen as by one accord to their feet, and 
stood there, a seething, yelling, frantic crowd, shouting, 
bellowing, waving hats, hands, handkerchiefs, neck- 
scarves, anything that came handy, and some ten min- 
utes went by before a single coherent sound could be 
distinguished. Again and again the storm lulled and 
broke forth, and Marjory stood there without moving, 
wondering, if the truth be told, whether they were for 
or against her. Then Austin himself came to her side, 
and waited patiently for a chance of speaking. 

“ Ladies and gentlemen,” he said at length, when he 
was able to make himself heard, “one friendly one 
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among you this afternoon gave me a few words of 
excellent advice. I don’t know who that gentleman 
was who said ‘ Grasp your nettle.’ I went home and 
told my wife; she has effectually grasped the nettle 
of slander and ill-will. I think, I hope, I feel sure that 
she has amply satisfied you and justified herself and 
me, and given you very certain proof that she is not 
likely to discredit either her husband or his constitu- 
ents if you should be good enough to return me to 
Parliament.” 

Then he stooped down, took Marjory’s hand in his, 
and kissed it before them all. 


CHAPTER XLYI. 

THE MEMBER FOR BANWICH. 

“ It is a joy 

To think the best we can of humankind.” 

Wordsworth. 

With regard to the actual election there is no more 
to tell. In vain did Sir Robert Willoughby protest that 
the news of Mrs. Austin’s parentage was as astonishing 
news to him as it could be to anybody in the division. 
In vain did he pledge his word that the reports which 
had been circulated about her had not emanated in 
any shape or form from himself, which, by the bye, 
was true enough. It was in vain that he spoke, pro- 
tested, and promised ; the blood of Banwich was up, 
and John Austin was returned by a majority which 
was absolutely unparalleled within the memory of 
man. 


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What passed between Sir Robert and bis wife after 
Marjory’s disclosures the world of Banwich never 
knew. Her ladyship was vigorously hissed on the 
only time that she ventured to show her face in the 
streets of the excited little town, and then the news 
went forth that the ex-Member and his wife were 
going on a tour round the world and would be away 
from England for several years. 

I do not know, my reader, whether you have ever 
noticed one symptom — one certain and unfailing symp- 
tom — of success. It is the begetting of short mem- 
ories. Somehow, after the election was over, nobody 
in Banwich remembered that Mrs. John Austin had 
ever seemed distant or disagreeable. In the eyes of 
most people she had always taken her proper place, 
her born position, that of the Honourable George 
Dundas’s daughter. Indeed, only one person had a 
single word to say that was not all sugar and honey, 
and that was the kind old lady at Clive House. 

“ Eh, my dear,” she said, taking Marjory’s hand on 
the eventful evening and stroking it between her two 
soft old ones, “you’ve done well by Johnnie, and God 
bless you for it, my dear; but, all the same, you 
oughtn’t to have run away from your ma; I don’t 
hold with that. If you’d only told your ma where 
you was, all this would never have happened. I’m 
very fond of you, my dear ; you’ve been like one of 
my own daughters to me, but you shouldn’t have run 
away from your ma.” 

“ No,” said Marjory, “ you’re quite right, grannie ; I 
shouldn’t.” 

“She mightn’t have looked at Johnnie with your 
eyes,” said old Mrs. Austin, looking up proudly at her 
big son ; “ she might have been cross with you, but 
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still she was your ma. And you’ve only one ma in 
this world, my dear ; you oughtn’t to have run away 
from her, — not even with Johnnie.” 

“Perhaps, grannie,” said Marjory, a little tremu- 
lously, “if my mother had been more like you, I 
shouldn’t have done so.” 

“ Still, she was your ma, my dear,” was the old lady’s 
rejoinder. 

Well, the next thing that woke the good people of 
Banwich to astonishment was that Mrs. John Austin’s 
father, the Honourable George Dundas, had come down 
to Crow’s Hest. I know not what arguments he used, 
but a couple of days later Austin and Marjory went 
back with him to London, and Marjory saw her mother 
again for the first time since she had parted from her 
nearly seven years before in Heidelberg. 

Mrs. Dundas was without doubt in many senses a 
very remarkable woman. Having heard from her 
husband that, in spite of her wickedness, Marjory had 
really made a very good match, she at once took up a 
position as if nothing had been wrong between them. 
She received Marjory exactly as if she had been away 
on a short visit. 

“ You know, my dear,” she said to her when the first 
meeting was over, “ you must confess that you be- 
haved scandalously.” 

“Oh, I did, mother, scandalously,” said Marjory, 
blushing a fine rosy red, “ and, believe me, I have been 
very unhappy all this time ; not with Jack, of course 
not, — he is too dear for words, — but to feel that I had 
cut myself off from all of you. And yet I did not see 
what else there was for me to do.” 

“ Oh, well, well, there is no use in going over dis- 
agreeable subjects now. I detest raking up the past 
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when there is nothing to be gained by doing so. I am 
really extremely annoyed that Helen should have made 
herself so stupid and disagreeable. She might just as 
well have told me when she found you so very well 
placed as she did, instead of cooking all this knowledge 
up as a deadly secret and making such a fuss about it. 
Really, I thought Helen had more good sense than that. 
However, she and Sir Robert have gone abroad for 
several years. They are going to do Cairo and India 
and Japan and Australia and other places, and forget 
all about these disagreeable things. And when they 
come back again I hope you will all meet as if nothing 
had happened. If not, why, of course, they must just 
keep themselves apart from you. But, for all of our 
sakes, I hope they will see the wisdom of letting by- 
gones be bygones. Your father tells me that Crow’s 
Nest is a really beautiful place, and that your little chil- 
dren are charming, Marjory. I must come down and 
see you there.” 

“ Yes, mother, we shall be delighted to have you,” 
said Marjory. “ There is only one thing that I ought 
to tell you. You know, dear mother, you have be- 
haved most beautifully to me in return for my abomi- 
nable conduct to yourself. The more I think about the 
past the more ashamed I am that I could have been so 
stupid and so ungrateful and so traitorous to you ” 

“ Well, well, well, we will let that all rest,” said Mrs. 
Dundas, easily. “ I consider your husband is quite 
excuse enough for you to have done many foolish 
things. Perhaps he was not quite what I should have 
approved of then, but he has justified himself, my dear. 
To be Member for an important division like Banwich 
and to have made an enormous settlement upon you, as 
your father tells me he has done, is sufficient to smooth 
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away many little difficulties. Don’t say anything more 
about it.” 

“ There is one thing I must say, mother,” said Mar- 
jory, with distress in her voice. “ You will have to 
see the old lady. Jack’s mother. She is very kind and 
good and sweet, but she is very homely.” 

“ Oh, well, my dear, she won’t live for ever.” 

‘‘ Oh, mother!” 

“ Well, dear, in the natural order of things,” said Mrs. 
Dundas, in her most equable voice ; “meantime I will 
go and call on her and tell her that I am enchanted 
with her son. That ought to be enough, don’t you 
think ?” 

“ Yes, dear, but she is very homely,” said Marjory. 

“ Oh, well, dear child, one cannot have everything, 
and I suppose I need not see very much of her. You 
see, you will be in London a good part of the year, and 
here you will be free of all Banwich connections. You 
will have a house, of course. Oh, here are Jack and 
! your father. W e were just talking, Jack, — Marjory and 
I I, — about your being part of the year in London. You 

will have a house, of course,” Mrs. Dundas said, ap- 
pealing to Austin. 

! And then Austin sat down beside her, and they fell 
into a vigorous discussion on the respective merits of 
furnished and unfurnished houses. 

I think that never did any other woman, to use a 
familiar phrase, wipe the slate so thoroughly clean. 
Mrs. Dundas, having entirely forgiven her daughter, 
seemed determined to see offence in nothing. She 
charmed everybody in Banwich by her good-natured 
fiat upon her erring child, even the old lady at Clive 
House. 

“ Well, my dear Mrs. Austin,” she said to her, when 
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the old lady had repeated her sentiments on the sub- 
ject of running away, “ we must not be too hard on 
these young things. I was, of course, very angry with 
Marjory and very much hurt that she should have de- 
serted me in that way, that she should have thought it 
necessary to desert me in that way, before I had had 
time to make any opposition ; but now that I have seen 
your handsome son, I am really not very much sur- 
prised. As to the suggestion that there was ever any- 
thing mysterious or improper about Maijory’s life, that 
is too ridiculous. I am quite sure that nobody could 
have entertained such an idea seriously for a single 
moment; at all events, you and I must join forces 
together to put a stop to any such nonsense for the 
future. I shall present my daughter at the next 
draHng-room, and that will surely be sufficient to stop 
any lingering gossip that may still be alive.” 

“ A nice, homely old soul,” said Mrs. Dundas that 
evening to her husband ; “ the kind of person one would 
have for a housekeeper. It will be a very good thing 
for Marjory when she is taken to her reward. Yery 
good and worthy and all that sort of thing, but as long 
as she lives a detriment, my dear George, a detriment. 
The sisters are dreadful, — terrible young women. I 
am sure poor Marjory must have been most unhappy. 
But now that she is a mile or two away and will be 
half the year in London, things will be quite different 
for her. He, as you say, is very sensible and present- 
able, and this place is quite charming, and since he is 
so full of appreciation of Marjory, I really don’t see 
that she could have done better. She was always most 
romantically inclined, and I am sure we cannot be 
thankful enough that ' everything has turned out so 
much for the best.” 


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“Yes, that is so,” said George Dundas in reply. 
“ The only pity is that Helen should have made every- 
thing so awkward and unpleasant.” 

“ Oh, well, they will make that up by and by,” said 
Mrs. Dundas, easily ; “ if not, the world is wide enough, 
and they must agree to differ. By all accounts, John 
Austin will make a much better member for Banwich 
than ever Robert Willoughby did. I should not be at 
all surprised if, with a little judicious help, he is in the 
Cabinet before ten years are over.” 

So Mrs. Dundas dismissed the past in the truly regal 
manner which was characteristic of her, and having, 
in her own mind, set a goal in front of herself and 
John Austin, she prepared to launch her daughter upon 
the social world as the wife of the Member for Ban- 
wich. 

So extremes meet, and Marjory’s seven years’ jour- 
ney through an unknown world brought her, in the 
end, almost to her old starting-place. 

“ We are so happy, Mr. Dundas and I,” Marjory’s 
mother explained, “ that it has all turned out so well. 
Our son-in-law is quite charming .... and I feel con- 
fident that when they are established in London Mar- 
jory will be a great success.” 


THE END. 


Electrotypeo and Printed by J. B. Lippinoott Company, Philadelphia, U.8.A. 


316 


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WILSON BARRETT’S GREAT NOVEL 


The Sign of the Cross 

WITH FRONTISPIECE BY B. WEST CLINEDINST 


I2mo. Cloth, extra, $1.50. 


i 

" You seem to me to have rendered a great service to the best and holiest of all 
causes, — The Cause of Faith.” — Rx. Hon. W. E. Gladstone. 

“ Mr, Barrett has succeeded admirably in placing a strong and intense story 
before the reading public.” — Cincinnati Coni7nercial Tribune. 

“ Mr. Barrett has treated his subject with reverence and dignity. The brutal, 
licentious Nero and his ribald drunken satellites make an admirable foil to the 
spiritual Mercia and the other followers of Christ ; and throughout the book the 
j nobility, the simple faith, and the steadfastness of these last are dominating notes. 

■ No more impressive lesson of the power of the doctrines of Christianity has been 
I given in fiction than the conversion of Marcus, Nero’s Prefect, through the example 
and fearlessness of the girl Mercia.” — Philadelphia Evening Bulletin. 

“ * The Sign of the Cross’ is an historical story of the first Christian century 
which in a forcible way portrays the conflict between the religion of the Caesars and 
that of Christ. It is crowded with picturesque personages, some of them historical, 
and it is provided with moving scenes and dramatic situations. The triumph of the 
Cross is set forth in a manner to make vivid the odds it overcame and the force of 
its influence. Mr. Barrett, in making fiction out of drama, shows himself to possess 
a decided literary ability (not necessarily to be found in the writer of a good acting 
play), and he tells the story with keen instinct for its dramatic value. The result is 
a readable and impressive novel whose action is swift and whose interest is sustained 
throughout. The book is a justification of the experiment of turning stage litera- 
ture into closet reading.” — Hartford Courant. 


J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA. 


By GEORGE MORGAN. 


John Littlejohn, of J. 

BEING IN PARTICULAR AN 

ACCOUNT OF HIS REMARKABLE ENTANGLEMENT WITH THE KING’S 
INTRIGUES AGAINST GENERAL WASHINGTON. 

i2mo. Cloth extra, deckle edges, $1.25. 


“ George Morgan’s style is strong and free, intensely 
literal and vividly poetic by turns, and he has prepared 
himself thoroughly by knowing the scenes and studying 
the historic incidents with the pains necessary for a good 
historic novel. ‘John Littlejohn, of J.,’ is a tale of Rev- 
olutionary times. It opens at Valley Forge, introducing 
amid lesser-known officers, Americans and their French 
and German allies, Washington, of course, and Hamil- 
ton and Conway, the cabalist, the noble young Lafayette, 
Baron Steuben, and others of distinction. Out-and-out 
adventure, intrigues, with their plot and counterplot, the 
romance of maiden’s love, smoothing the horrors and 
compensating for the dangers and discomforts of grim 
war, are here well mingled. The story ends at the battle 
of Monmouth, in which the treachery of Lee, and Wash- 
ington’s one recorded oath when he denounced and 
insulted Lee by the word and sign ‘Poltroon,’ as under- 
stood between soldier and soldier, and by his superb 
presence turned defeat into victory, are told with spirit.” 
— Boston Evening Transcript. 


“ ‘John Littlejohn, of J.,' is a story full of originality, of vitality, action, and 
charming bits of descriptive writing ; an earnest, able, and highly interesting picture 
of the American Revolution ; a romance which must always find an honored place 
among the comparatively few novels having a background of American history. 
. . . The style is a wonder of crispness and of a kind of Shakespearian happiness. 
The spirit is remarkable, as is also the fidelity to the times, to place, and to char- 
acter .” — Philadelphia Inquirer. 


J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA. 


BY JULIA HELEN TWELLS, JR. 

A Triumph of Destiny. 

i2mo. Cloth, deckle edges, ^1.25. 

“ It is a book of uncommon characters and end-of-century problems ; a story 
of strength told with interest and conviction. . , . '1 he book is well worth reading." 
— Philadelphia Press. 

" Miss Twells is evidently a woman of extensive mental resources, who thinks 
deeply and clearly. Her story commands admiration and consequent attention 
from the first. There are not many characters, but about the few are clustered 
events of significance, and their relation to each other and to their own individual 
development is analyzed with strength and clearness.” — Washington Times. 


BY MRS. OLIPHANT. 

The Unjust Steward. 

i2ino. Cloth, ^51.25. 

“ We have an admirable study of an old Scotch minister oppressed by the con- 
sciousness of a very venial fault in a small financial transaction. The tone is one 
of cheerful humor, the incidents are skilfully devised, verisimilitude is never sacri- 
ficed to effect, every episode is true to life ." — Philadelphia Press. 

BY ARTHUR PATERSON. 

For Freedom’s Sake. 

i2mo. Cloth, $ 1 . 2 ^. 

" The subj'ect-matter of this book is the desperate battle between freedom and 
slavery for possession of Kansas. One of the strongest characters introduced is 
old John Brown. A charming love story is naturally incidental, and the element 
of humor is by no means lacking ." — New York World. 


J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA. 


By Louis Becke. 


THE EBBING OF THE TIDE. South Sea Stories. 

Large i2mo. Cloth extra, ^1.25. 

“ All the passions of humanity are pictured, both good and bad, and the stories 
run from the pathetic to the horrible. There are many of them tragic and all 
dramatic, and the surroundings are so picturesque that the little dramas portrayed 
are intensely fascinating, often horribly so. We have rarely read so fascinating a 
collection of stories.*' — Boston Times. 

‘ The Ebbing of the Tide’ is a book of very powerful stories. Louis Becke 
must know to the bottom the life of the South Sea Islands. There are many touches 
of exquisite pathos, many bits of romance, many flashes of noble nature. There 
are scenes that one is glad to remember, mingled with scenes that one is glad to 
forget. The style is forceful. There is great intensity, great condensation. 'J he 
style has, in fact, an impress of masterliness, of control. It is the style of a writer 
ready and practical ; a writer who takes us, with a firm guidance, among a strange 
and wonderful people, till we feel that we, too, have seen them.” — Cincinnati 
Commercial Gazette. 


HIS NATIVE WIFE. 

In the Lotos Library. Illustrated. i6mo. Polished Buckram, 

75 cents. 

" The novelty and keen emotional simplicity of Mr Becke's subjects are by no 
means the only charm of his book. In his treatment of his themes he shows what 
may be called the rarest literary wisdom. He elaborates nothing, indulges in no 
pyrotechnics of style, but tells his stories with an utter simplicity that is at once 
dignified and inexpressibly pungent.” — Boston Evening Transcript. 


BY REEF AND PALM. 

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY THE EARL OF PEMBROKE. 

In the Lotos Library. Illustrated. i6mo. Polished buckram, 

75 cents. 

" What Kipling has done for India, Mr. Becke can do for the Pacific Islands ” 
— Chicago Inter- Ocean. 

• stories are brief, pointed, passionate, beautiful, and while unconnected 

in character and place, still combine in an atmosphere of tropical glow which fuses 
all Chicago Times. 


J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA. 




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